Ultimate Vendetta
by Uru Baen
Summary: My personal sequel to World's Best Asassain by Pat Squared, done with him as a beta and with his permission.
1. Chapter 1

Ultimate Vendetta 

A Kim Possible Fan Fiction based off World's Best Assassin, by Pat Squared

By Uru Baen

Hello, 4 things before we start:

1. Mega, ultra sorry for having no updates. I know y'all don't want to hear excuses, but, life poked me with its evil stick of doom

2. If you want a plot summary, PM me. I don't want to bore y'all, or steal the thunder of Pat the Mighty.

3. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Pat Squared for beta-ing this story. My writing would be nothing without you (as evinced by my one – shots - written relatively well, but organized like crud and with no character depth) If the characters feel at al real, that's his doing. The greatest majority of Hussein's speech is his.

4. Please, if you liked this chapter at all, click the little button below, make up a name, and say so. If you hated it, say so. If you want me dead, say so. Just review. It's no good writing if you don't see your readers. I honestly and genuinely care about and respond to each review.

Now, on with the show!

* * *

_Beijing, 2036_

Back, farther back than almost anyone could remember, there was a place called "Pine Crest Park." This place housed an organization called Global Justice. Employed in this place was a man called "Ronald Dean Stoppable", known to most as simply "Ron." However, the stress of saving millions of lives daily- on a slow day- slowly drove him insane. In the end, his wife- Kimberly Anne Possible- tried to help, and Ron raped her for her trouble. She, however, never blamed him, even after he died. She blamed his job.

Therefore, she formed the CVB to combat Global Justice. With the death of Director Betty in prison, Global Justice fell to Will Du and his white sword- who took ever greater emergency powers in order to catch the CVB leader who controlled the day to day operations- to Melody, the eldest daughter of Ron and Kim and she held a red sword.

Their operative in China was about to fulfill his objective.

A cold wind was blowing through the streets of Beijing. Kong Zeng Sheng, Zeng Sheng Kong, in the Western order, barely noticed. He carried the briefcase like it was his God, eyes darting around and down to make sure no one would dare steal it. They finally arrived at Tienamen Square, and he laid down the briefcase. He ran off- it would take roughly an hour for the "surprise" to arrive. He found a quickly made altar, and began to pray.

After he left, a few people around the briefcase paused and looked around at the architecture, and, sensing something amiss, some paused to reflect as they saw a white streak in the sky. Others turned their gaze a second later, and these had a moment's warning before a fiery glow embraced five thousand feet of their town. The earth quickly protested, as in response it rose up into waves as an ocean, cresting and breaking in that same familiar way. A million lucky souls died instantly. Nine million more condemned souls would not have the mercy of a quick death.

* * *

_Paris, 2036_

Meanwhile in Paris, negotiations were continuing, after a break for Ramadan. The world watched with bated breath as dignitaries and representatives from many nations were seated at a large negotiation table. However, even the U.S. ambassador to France was cowed by the dialogue that the two main parties were exchanging. At one end of the table was the French ambassador, Jacques Dumas, was talking rapidly in French on a cell phone. The Secretary General banged his gavel, to open the meeting.

Ambassador Dumas, who'd won the coin toss to decide who goes first, stood up, saying, "We are here today to negotiate peace in le grand dame, France. To have peace, we also must negotiate the disarmament of the rebel group 'Allah's Love'. We must as well force the return to work of the Muslim people in France, who are in a state of active rebellion. All due to the declaration of their militant head cleric in our country that our laws to keep their radical, sexist, genocidal religion out of our school schools and government buildings are a violation of Allah's will. Not to mention his inane claim that the fact that there are a minority of Muslim parliament members, when they are in the majority in the country denotes discrimination against his 'distinguished' people. They are here to redress us for the grievance of 'oppressing' their crazy religion which forbids them to wear gold, and have their women to wear T-shirts."

A few of the representatives looked appalled, and the Secretary General had to rub his eyes because he could've sworn he'd seen green lines dripping down Dumas's jaws.

Hussein Thierry, the senior representative for the 'Allah's Love' Movement, was carefully listening to the ambassador's opening statement. When the long winded ambassador finally finished his insulting remarks, Hussein, drawing upon a youth in high school theater, stood up and used his rhetorical experience to reply to the insulting ambassador.

"With all due respect to Ambassador Dumas, the statement the French Muslims blindly follow the will of radical militant clerics is a plainly racist sentiment. Monsieur Abu Mohammad was the first to call for peaceful dialogue between the Muslim community and the French government. Spewing out hatred is and loaded rhetoric is not a way to open negotiations or encourage civilized dialogue. French Muslims have reluctantly raised a militia to protect law abiding French citizens from the French Army's efforts to pry hardworking Frenchmen out of their homes and imprison them because they have honest complaints about a corrupt government, which trampled upon their inalienable right to peaceably exercise their freedom to worship their god."

Thus far his speech was fairly controlled, and completely genuine. But it was time to ratchet up the drama.

"Jews, Christians, and Muslims all worship the same God that reveals himself to Abraham in the Canaan wilderness five millennia ago. The Jews call him Yahweh. The Christians call him God. And we Muslims call him Allah. Despite the chances in name, He is still the same God and his love embraces all his children, not a select few. Allah's Love embraces us all. If you have not seen, there are a good many Christian Frenchmen who I personally am proud to call my true friends. From around the globe, Christians, Jews, and even the Dali Lama have expressed doubts about the current French government actions to maintain order as well. Please note, that many of these so-called religiously affiliated parties have never won a control of Parliament."

Hussein was a righteous man; and he has worked beside Jews and Christians all his life. He was certainly more tolerant than that gas bag at the other end of the table; but he can't say that out loud. He was, however, starting to lose himself in the passion of his speech.

"Contrary to what others say, Allah's Love is not here to convert France to Islam. We did not form to wage some so call holy jihad. We are not those radical Muslims who race to martyr ourselves and our children. We did not race out and killed Christian clerics in an attempt to make their followers despair. We did not retaliate and attack churches and synagogues. We did not plant bombs or fly airliners into the Eiffel Tower."

This was half bluster, and half honest outrage. He had to keep talking, and keep the meeting going. Thankfully, France had a number of sticking points, due to its choice of ambassador- an old racist swine. And how dare that Dumas...

"When we were oppressed, we chose the route of civil disobedience over the reign of the mob. We followed the difficult path of peace that Thoreau, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and Jesus of Nazareth set for us. We did not sheathe our blades in the flesh of our oppressors, but instead merely peaceably protest and petition for the redress of grievances as is our right as Frenchmen."

He recalled how ironic it is that a man of the race that once tried to subjugate the world, who killed thousands of innocents in their revolution nearly three hundred years ago was now calling him a militant.

"Current polling data from other countries says that Muslims now have the highest election participation percentage of any demographic segment. It's no accident. When your rights are being denied, you exercise the right that you have to protect the future of the nation you love."

"My father's family has been French citizens for six generations. My great-great grandfather, Henri fought along his Christian Free French brothers against Nazi tyranny in North Africa and Europe. His father, Abu, died defending France from the Germans in the First World War. My family and many other French Muslim families have more than earned the right to vote and participate in the French political process. I, myself, bled for France when I served as a combat engineer during the Battle at the Kennel Runs twenty five years ago."

His family had given more to France than anyone - and that is what made him feel like if anyone had the right to change France, he did. And so he would, through his mission; at this very moment, the elections were going on. They had a man on the inside, who was hacking constantly, who needed complete control over the network to do his job so that no one would notice. As long as this meeting was going on and isolated, their network security people were working on the independent U.N. server. The authorities might have one man left in the workplace who could discover their man; but he was an extreme slacker. He ran one scan at the beginning of the day and at the end of the day, and called that network security. If all went according to plan, the oppressed would soon have what was rightfully due them.

"Many French Muslims families have willingly sacrificed sons, fathers, brothers, grandfathers, and uncles defending our homeland of France. We have sacrificed our loved ones to protect not just the geographical concept of France, but the ideals of equality, liberty, and fraternity that are the core of France. Being French is not a matter of DNA, but living your life by these three values."

Now his honest outrage was talking completely; all thoughts of a mission had been washed away. He had the right to call himself French, as much as his friends and employers had the right to call themselves Native Americans; how many lives must you save, how many years must you be there, how much must you give before you earn that right?

"Now the old guard are condemning French citizens for exercising the right to participate in the political forum that our families have paid for in blood. The Allah's Love Movement doesn't want a return to the 7th century and the dark ages. We are not here to make Islamic Law replace the Napoleonic Code like some accuse us of planning. Radical jihadists condemn us for not pushing an Islamic theocracy. However, we are proud of that condemnation. France stands for liberty and what good is faith if it's forced upon you?"

"We don't want to fight our fellow French brothers. All we have asked for and all we will ask for is the opportunity to have our grievances fairly dealt with."

The representative from the French government was flustered. Hussein had carefully prepared this opening statement not to negotiate, but to make an appeal to the world to see French Muslims as members of a democratic society seeking to participate, not an Islamic religious movement. Hussein started driving a wedge between the old government of France and its Western backers.

"Quite frankly, Hussein, the only reason you are at this table is because of those parliament members you demean. They are the ones who pleaded that we open negotiations with you. Moreover, as your stranglehold on our economy started to show, we had no choice but to agree. Not even soldiers march on empty bellies or with empty pockets. You are nothing, but an economic terrorist, and you deserve to be buried in pig carcasses!"

Hussein took in a deep breath. He had to remain calm no matter what the provocation was. He had to play the role of the suffering martyr fighting not with barbs, but with love and reasoning. This was the gravest insult that the ambassador could make; to as much as touch a dead pig is a sin in Islam. Yet, Hussein played his role perfectly and did not rise to the bait.

"If I was still a youth, I would proclaim that you are the daughter of a racist French whore, and your age has past! However, having once personally witnessed the horrors of war, I realize that hatred and spite has no place among brokers of peace. All French Muslims have ever asked for is to be recognized as your equals. All we have ever wanted is to peaceably exercise our human rights. It is not our hand that strangles France; it is yours! As our common holy scriptures said about the Pharaoh who enslaved the ancient Hebrews - it is your own stubbornness and pride that reduces your proud kingdom to rubble!"

"This is not a fight between the French and some outsiders seeking to destroy the essence of France. My family has lived here for generations, and we love this land like any other Frenchman. We merely desire free, peaceable, practice of religion, and equal rights to participate in the political process - as the laws of le grand dame France dictates. Is not asking that a Western, democratic government follow its own laws unreasonable? One cannot be for justice without being against injustice. One cannot be for fraternity without being against prejudice. One cannot be for liberty without being against oppression. Mr. Secretary, and my fellow delegates, this conclude my opening statement."

Hussein felt completely drained; he had expended all of his will, passion, and knowledge, and most of the delegates had watering eyes, and looked like they wanted nothing more than whistle and clap.

At this point, the Secretary General intervened.

"Now, gentlemen, trading rhetoric is not the reason why we came here! Racism or not, discrimination or not, that is not the point of these negotiations. France is economically dying. We are not here to say that you, Hussein, are a terrorist. Nor are we here to say that you, Jacques, are discriminatory in your policies. The only point of these negotiations is a compromise that will make stable ground for a permanent solution, one that can come after France's economic pulse is restored."

Hussein subtly started to sweat. This was not good. He couldn't continue his dialogue under these conditions; the Secretary was just too good of a diplomat for him to continue raising Cain about this problem. His sense of worry started to heighten, and it was with no small amount of tension in his voice that he raised the concern.

"I wholly agree, and that is why we must initiate a policy of isolation during these meetings. No one can honestly make a decision with a phone ringing off of the hook in their ear. No cell phones, real phones, or TV's should be allowed in these premises."

Hussein expected that his group should start their surprise in a few minutes, and he had to beat the clock, had to beat mother Technology in a race against fate. Isolation was the only thing that would keep their technology personnel occupied through the night. He receded deep in thought, trying to figure out the possibilities that spawned when Hussein was forced to take this unexpected path. The UN Secretary General smiled and nodded.

"I believe that is a wonderful idea. I have rarely found serenity when I have had my cell phone on, or any of the devices you mentioned. Quite frankly, a cool temper could not stand up to a cell phone, especially under such condition as these where we are discussing the fate of a nation. I motion that we end debate and take a vote on it now."

The ambassadors from the western world stood up almost instantly, voting Yea. The eastern ambassadors followed, hesitantly, a moment later. Only Russia's ambassador, Grigor Romanov, stayed where he was.

"Okay that is a _nearly_ unanimous resolution: again, who votes for an isolation policy?"

Just then, Jacques' cell phone started to ring. Jacques said, "Excuse me, but I must take this, and it is not yet decided on isolation."

"But, Jacques, it is impossible to continue these negotiations if you do not make the attempt to follow the spirit of our declarations. It may not yet be decided, but all of us agree that we would prefer it. If you leave now, you will be blamed for sabotaging these negotiations."

Hussein chimed in, "I agree wholeheartedly, Jacques, there are a number of concessions that I shall certainly reconsider if you sit down right now and turn off the phone."

Jacques said, "Gentlemen, I apologize, but I must take this or I risk losing things more precious to me than ground in negotiations. _Excuse moi_."

The French ambassador left the room. Hussein waited, not noticing as they took a vote on, unanimously agreeing except for him, to enact the isolation. Effective once Jacques got back. Hussein excused himself, citing a need to pray and a need to use the restroom. He bolted back to his room in the hotel, praying and using his bathroom. He hadn't lied; when he gets nervous, his bladder activates. However, he did something else as well; retrieved a small needle, filled with liquefied oleander extract.

He ran to the front of the building, and knocked aside the guards that motioned for him and his pass. Hussein took out his wallet and flung it onto the desk behind him. He ran straight into Jacques as he was watching for him. His mind started to race - the last time he'd killed was a generation ago - yet he needed to do it now for a cause no less important.

He saw a look of- horror? Awe? Despair? Maybe all of them, but regardless, he injected it into Jacques' chest. He felt like cheering, as he'd stopped Jacques. At the same time, he'd hoped to live up to his words earlier - his idols were Ghandi and Martin Luther King; which is why he joined PsyOps in the first place! His mind was at war with itself. There was plenty left in the beaker he had in his room, but he finally stood up and drug off the body, as he thought, and finally grabbed the cell phone off of Jacques' corpse just before he stuffed it into a trashcan. He made a call, as fast as he could, to his lieutenant.

"Achmed, we have a problem. The moron completed his call. Quick, get some men into his house. Have them call this number from there, and kill whoever else is in there."

Hussein quickly took out a cigarette... he hated the things, thought they were mankind's worst invention since bacon, but, he had to have an excuse for being outside. About the same time he lit up, the Secretary General went out the doors, and spotted him.

"Oh ho ho... so that's what you were doing, eh, Hussein? Wait... I thought that was forbidden in Islam?"

"Eh, I know, but I didn't when I was first offered one back in high school. I so wanted to fit in, that I did it... I got hooked. I've been trying to quit since I was seventeen, but, given all the prohibitions, it is still extremely hard for me to quit the filthy habit. This is my first one in two days."

Just then, his pocket started to vibrate.

"Excuse me; I've got to take this." He flipped his phone open, saying, "Hello? Oh, yes, I would have to say that that sounds lovely. Please, do me a favor; water the plants, because we're stuck in here for the next few days."

That was Achmed. "Jacques' family is dead"! Hussein Thierry now had the blood of innocents on his hands. The number that was registered as the last call on the phone was just the number that was needed. Question was: How to plant it on his body with the Secretary General was around.

Hussein finished his cigarette, and said, "Well, that's it for me. I've got to go to get something to eat; I saw Jacques walking toward a restaurant when he was trying to find a signal for his phone. You go on inside."

The Secretary nodded and left, still smiling. Hussein whipped the body out of the trashcan, saying, "That was close, eh, buddy?"

Hussein chuckled and walked forward, dropping Jacques' body halfway there, looking like he'd fallen from a severe heart attack, just out of sight of the trashcans. He took a cleansing breath - a trick he'd learned from Svetlana - and ran back inside, screaming. Guard rushed to him, and the delegates soon followed.

Hussein sobbed, "Jacques is dead!"

A collective gasp filled the room.

"I found his body around the corner. The phone was in his hand, and his hands across his heart."

Grigor spoke up.

"Well, the poor man did have a history of heart trouble... what was the last number that called his phone? Maybe the call he took gave him a heart attack?"

Just then, a guard walked in, and said, "The last call was from his house. I sent a unit to investigate, and they are gone, assumed dead because of the blood trail."

The meeting went on, unabated, for the rest of the night, and eventually, everyone was getting tired, when suddenly, there was a knock on the door. They opened it, thinking it might be catering.

Instead, an Arabic man wearing a hand tailored-suit came in and said, "I wanted to let all of you know two things: One, Abu Mohammed has won a majority in Parliament under his quietly formed Allah's Love party, and two, Ambassador Thierry is now General of the Armies, and is wanted back in the Capital for consultations as to prevent rioting."

Hussein was as surprised by this last announcement as anyone; he hadn't expected to be named General of the Armies. He had hoped that Svetlana would have selected another for that post. With a growing sense of dread in his already heavy heart, he took a slow walk outside to the limousine there waiting for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Alright, I know it's been a while... but I NEVER abandon a story. I give my sacred word of honor to that pledge. Even as I lay on my deathbed, the U.S. Army, Satan, and all the armies of Hell besides would not be able to tear me from my desk until I penned "The End" to the last of my stories.

* * *

_Paris 2036_

Hussein Thierry was rubbing his temples.

The middle aged man was going over a map of Germany in his head. He already knew what was happening and wondered how things fell apart so fast. It was as if the Devil himself, planed this operation.

Svetlana Netrebko seduced the once proud warrior of peace. Not with her body, although the site of her tall, slim figure could make any male, straight or gay, think about carnal delights. She was attractive, but not one of those waifs that walked the runways in Paris and Milan.

Svetlana had the ability to make others like her and respect her. Instead of using his natural lusts, she instead seduced his ego and his conscience. Soon he thought of her as a confidant, like a beloved daughter who has grown up - Someone who he could respect as his intellectual equal.

During the war with America, the then young private of mixed Moroccan-French descent has lost his idealism in humanity and God. He had personally killed and was almost killed. If he just moved one centimeter back, an American's sniper bullet would have penetrated his skull instead of grazing it. Two more copper-clad bullets to the chest had ended his war and broke his spirit. When he was released from the American military hospital, he fell into a life style of debauchery.

Seven years ago, he was just the founder and head engineer of his own construction firm. He had built some of Europe's most famous skyscrapers. He had raised two children who both made him proud. He had a lovely wife whom still excited him. He had ritualistically made the required prayers, fasted during the holy month, honored the customs his father instilled into him, and even went on the pilgrimage to Mecca. Yet he drank and fornicated with paid women. Svetlana appeared and helped him regain his spirit. She help him recover his faith in God and man. She had recruited him to a cause that he was willing to fight for.

Hussein did not care that Svetlana was the Director of PSYOPS Division in the CVB. He did not care that the CVB had a dark reputation and was born out of a brutal past.

Over the past five years, the CVB developed the reputation among the dark side of the world's intelligence services as one of the most deadly and effective groups of "Trouble Management Consultants" in the world. Need an oil refinery blow without a trail leading back to your government – Call the CVB. Need a 50-caliber message delivered from a distance of 1,500 meters into a foreign head of state without leaving any link to you – Call the CVB. Are you an _uber_-rich celebrity and need your child retrieved unhurt from vicious kidnappers and sex traffickers – Call the CVB. Their services were expensive – starting at the high six-figures in hard currency for a short term, low-risk operation, but their results were guaranteed. They would accomplish their objective with minimal fuss and your elected representatives and senators on the Intelligence Oversight Committee will never find any hint of your dirty laundry.

Only a handful of people knew what CVB really meant and none of them worked for any intelligence or law enforcement agency. Hussein Thierry was one of the few that knew that CVB meant Children of Vasilii Boiarskii.

Vasilii Boiarskii had a reputation that made that would make any professional contract killer or crime boss envious. To the world, he was a monster that once ruled the Eastern European underworld with an iron fist. Unlike most bosses, Boiarskii did his _wetwork. _Many talented and experienced _professionals_, on both sides of the law, have tried to kill him to only end up staring at the wrong side of a muzzle or the sharp point of a blade. Even twelve years after his death, both law enforcement officers and criminals still whisper his name with respect. Boiarskii became the thieves' cant for a criminal mastermind. To pull a Boiarskii meant to wipe out your enemies to the last generation. People still feared his name. Law enforcement feared that someone like Boiarskii would one day again rule the underworld.

However to eight children, Vasilii Alexovick Boiarskii was the father who sacrificed himself so that they might live. The pride watched helplessly as the hyenas gathered around to steal the pride's cubs. The pride hid, living in fear, until they became lions and lioness in their own right. Now they hunted the hyenas that took down their father.

The name of Vasilii Boiarskii was well known. What was not general knowledge was his pseudonym – the name the child he was forced to take the place of to escape even more horrible abuse and death – was Ronald Stoppable.

Thierry was ruminating over the possibilities that could unfold when he'd noted the car had stopped.

"Thank you, Pierre Ducat, for that ride over here."

The driver nodded, and drove off. Hussein looked up at the ancient doors, and the stone flourishes, and realized that he had a heavy duty hanging over his head. Taking a deep breath, he went in for a meeting with one of maybe ten men he'd ever respected.

* * *

_Paris, Charles De Gaulle Airport, 2036_

Meanwhile, at the Charles de Gaulle International Airport, a young brown haired man carried his guitar case off the plane. He slung it across his back, and then he strapped on a helmet. He liked danger, but he had too many things to do right now to become a statistic. Besides, he knew a certain someone would kill him if he died too soon. He finally picked up an old 2008 500-horsepower turbo-charged Suzuki GSXR-1300 race bike from the National rental center that had recently opened in the airport, and started off across town. Losing his troubles in the rush of dodging the idiots behind the wheel of those cars with the funny yellow head lamps, he rotated his right wrist, manipulated the clutch, and shifted with some sixth sense to let the 500-horsepower beast roar once more.

On his shirt, under his leather jacket, was a curious image. The rear view of a ship with two rear semicircular windows in a, the sharp curve of the sails managed by two main ropes, joining at a central hook.

Boating enthusiast?

No more than he was a musician. He was named Ronald. Ronald Possible Stoppable or simply Ron Junior. Descended from both a monster and a hero, a war criminal and a compassionate father, his fates were considerably less extreme than his father's. His father was a virile man, leaving enough children to make the Puritans envious. As he was there, Melody, the CVB's eldest "title" member, was working with Svetlana, and Grigor to clap shut the jaws of a dragon.

* * *

_Ruins of the Statue of Liberty, New York City, 2036_

Melody was rubbing her temples.

_Serves her right. Who the hell gave her the idea to nuke Beijing? Right, herself_, _the damn queen bee that never listens until she messes everything up._ It was one of her stupidest ideas ever. _Now I have to hold her hands_.

"Melody, don't beat yourself up over this. It was a natural opening. It also removed the one implacable part of our plan before it began. If China tries anything, we have a Veto on the U.N. Council."

"Yes, yes, Svetlana, I've told myself that a thousand times. What if they attack anyway? What if they trace it back? What if..."

"Melody, dear, you know I love you. But sometimes you freak and spasm up just like your mom. Shut up, relax, and trust me. China will be working full time damage control. The colonels and generals have to figure out who is calling the shots since we took out their politburo and the People's Congress. All we have to do is hire some Arabic guy to record a video saying it was the People for the Imam's Return. People will be scouring the land to find the Imam, alive for the next thousand years. Worse case, the Chinese will trace the broadcast of the film to Saudi Arabia, and will attack, cutting off the world's oil supply and cutting their own throats destroying everything but their own sense of honor."

Svetlana involuntarily tainted the last few words with disgust, but Melody had to stop being such a control freak. It was the thing that doomed any romantic relationship that Melody might have formed. With Melody, the two rules were: (1) Melody was in control; and (2) Any man must measure up to the stature of Melody's perception of her _godlike_ father.

Melody, left uneasy but without objections, and finally shut up, except for one last observation.

"That old man Thierry was a weak link. He is a crusader and not very many crusaders died of old age."

Svetlana knew it was time to put on her professor head and become Dr. Svetlana Netrebko, Ph.D. Psychology.

"The difference between the Islamists and the moderate Muslims is astounding- One has one of the most compassionate, if ritualistic, religions on the map, and the other has the most destructive in the history of Man."

* * *

_Paris, 2036_

Back in the estate of Abu Mohammed, Mr. Thierry went forward down the ominously empty halls. His loafers softly rang out a metronome that gave him pause for thought. In his head and hand, he had a map of Germany that looked as if he'd bled on it, which he knew may soon be the truth. Finally, he passed through a hall full of grand columns, and down to the two hundred year old oak door. He pushed the electronic buzzer, and said, "Salaam." A creaky but deep voice replied, "Salaam."

Straight-backed but reverent, he opened the door and bowed. The lavish curtains of the room belied the simple feather pillow beneath the bottom of Abu Mohammed, new Prime Minister of France. There was a cabinet with two large doors and three drawers below them. The cabinet held a small color television, purchased for $100 at Wal-Mart, and the drawers held every article of clothing he would wear for a long time, and the cabinet nearby held only jerky, peanut butter, and bread. The refrigerator held jelly and some sandwich meat.

His eyes were closed at the moment, but his skin alone told much of his life. His skin was unmarked, but displayed a texture much like old coarse sandpaper. His face was laced by only a few wrinkles, signs that he was old and wise while yet being in touch with his congregation; most Imams at his age were deep with wrinkles, riddled with them as some of their more radical enemies would be riddled with bullets; he kept active, emotional prayer and kept the congregation together to play sports, adhering to the old doctrine "Idle hands are the devil's workshop." He was a living example of the paradoxical commandments; he was stern and he was friendly.

His eyes snapped open when he heard Hussein say, "My dearest and holiest Imam, for what reason have you summoned me to your presence?" In a voice somewhere between a tenor and a baritone, he said "Peace be with you friend. There is much to discuss. Take a pillow and sit down."

Hussein kept his eyes on his Imam and took a plain pillow and sat down gently as possible. The first thing he said was not what he was expecting to say.

"My Imam, you live so Spartan a life. What happened to all of the rugs, tapestries, and adornments of your office at the mosque? I am used to seeing you in your ceremonial garb, belting out the word of Allah in glorious surroundings."

"Oh, those are just things that have been at the office forever. I much prefer a simpler existence. For me, peanut butter and jelly is extravagant enough; I use most of my wealth to venerate Allah, and to help the congregation. Did you see Sheila's new garden? I gave her the money for that, and she was so happy, she promised that when her next payday came in, she would give not only money to the Mosque football team, but more of her time to the church. Every dollar I waste on myself is another lost opportunity to bring about changes like that. As long as I am helping Allah, I am helping myself, I am helping the world, and I am helping my children. It is one of the lessons that Allah tries to teach us."

Hussein was humbled greatly by the mere fact that he would share this with him, to say nothing of the scope of the Imam's generosity. He had always known that he was a giving man; but to hear that the man lived off peanut butter and jelly that a member of his congregation might have her own garden. He resolved that, should he live through his tenure of service with the CVB, he would do the same and try to live up to the expectations of his teacher.

"And this is exactly how I got into preaching Islam. My teacher impressed me with his humility- he refrained from even radio, TV, and mattress- and I resolved to be just like him. I, however, could not live without mattress and TV, and they were relatively cheap at that point, so I decided to go ahead and use that small fraction of my pay. And now on to business. By that map of Germany, you already know what your task shall be. And you know how to do it.

Hussein took a deep breath and started his spiel.

"Yes. I am to force Berlin to surrender. I will proceed with a moderate column of tanks and artillery from Bischwiller, and proceed north, remaining south of Landeau in der Pfaiz, through the 'alley' between Walldorf and Sinsheim, where I will then have almost a straight curved sweep through to the Reichstag."

"Good, very good. But they will be expecting that. I recommend going from St-Amand-les-Eaux, through the Ronse/Frasnes 'alley' and then curving west, then north, to Maastricht, then northeast through the Aachen/Wurselen 'alley,' and that should take you, almost cleanly to the east, less populated, more vulnerable, side of Berlin."

He looked down at the map, and bowed, saying, "Yes, my Imam."

"Oh- and you will have one more resource available to you, one easily more powerful than the French army."

"What could be more powerful than the army of one of the oldest industrialized nations in Europe?"

Suddenly, a man with a leather Air Force jacket and a black motor cycle helmet burst in the door. He zipped it down and shrugged off the jacket, and ripped the helmet off. His hair reminded many immediately of the woods, and the foliage was his emerald eyes. It was rooted in his gaze and his wicked half-smile, an expression that was as multifunctional for him as the buffalo was for Indians. It showed grim determination, honest enjoyment, and lust, with various people.

The Imam continued as if nothing had happened.

"Ron Stoppable Junior. Trust me, the last name _Stoppable_ is enough to indicate that he is more powerful than the Roman Emperor was at the height of the Empire, more powerful than the President, more able than a martial arts champion, more able than Patton, Hannibal, and McArthur put together. His ways may not be subtle, but they are fast, and they are effective. He specializes in the very areas that you need for this operation, death and electronic warfare. His assignment will be to go ahead and throw a false news report into the stream- your army 'will' be advancing across the point of France- straight across the Rhine. People will be advised to flee southeast. All power plants will experience brownouts, or will 'sacrifice' their power for the good of the German army as you pass by."

Hussein finished, "So when the Reichstag falls, the Parliament should surrender, and France will accomplish a feat that the Roman Empire never did- beat the Germans single handedly, reversing two thousand years of reverses at Germanic hands." Hussein considered that for a moment, and it inspired in him a sense of awe- reversing the impetus of history, reviving the dead reputation of a one-great nation, another nation that once had an empire on which the sun never set, now reduced to the butt of many jokes, his homeland, was about to make history. Through his sword. He was a Crusader, a Crusader of old.

Ron Jr. paused for a second and said, "Okay, can I go out there and start killing things?" For a moment the Imam and Hussein both looked shocked and he held up his hands and said, "Kidding! Kidding…Mostly." He might be powerful, he might be able, he might be the lifeline that this operation depended on, he might be the next Roman Emperor for all Hussein cared, but his humor was not exactly the best.

* * *

_France, Saint Amand Les Eaux, 2036_

They were about to annihilate the culture of a proud people, subjugate them as they had not been subjugated since the Holy Roman Empire, which was neither Holy, nor Roman, nor, some argue, even an Empire. Oktoberfest, gone. That would make many an American sad. The home of the Reformation, the home of Nietzsche, and Goethe, the home of bratwurst, wiener schnitzel, blintzes, the roots of many Americans, the country that taught America how to organize and fight, gone. All for the sake of revenge.

The Grand Armee of France, fifty thousand Frenchmen on the border of the Rhineland, the sword of Damocles perched over the head of the "Huns," was assembled, on the attack for the first time in two hundred years. And it was composed of three unit types that Napoleon would've given both arms and a leg for: _arme blindée cavalerie_, the heaviest, native, armored cavalry, Artillery, and a small corps of Military Engineers, to build pontoon bridges and clear other obstacles when needed. Minister of Defense, and newly bestowed Marshal General of France Hussein Thierry had his tent pitched on the very property line between Germany and France. They gave him a title not used for a hundred and fifty years. They meant business. France was about to rock the world; they were about to undo ten thousand wounds that they had suffered; ten million men killed, ten million women raped, ten million houses burnt, ten million upon ten million injustices righted. All without loss of a single life.

* * *

_London, CLASSIFIED, 2036_

Meanwhile, intelligence men were scrambling all across Europe. In London, M15 was pooling all their resources. They'd been tracking massive bread, diesel, and tea movements to the north-west of France, specifically to the Rheims area-but no one could track them from there. Troop movements weren't apparent; they purportedly had their full army still at their usual stations so, either they had raised a secret army or this was all a lesson in assumptions, and recalling what it spells. Brad Burminson, new head of M15, assembled the meeting personally.

"Everyone knows why we are here. We are here because the new Parliament of France has scrambled at lightspeed to assemble what appears to be a massive army; it could support up to a hundred thousand men for a month, or fifty thousand men for two. We have several options: One. Intervene immediately with full ground and naval intervention. Take Paris, point a rifle at the Eiffel Tower, and they surrender. Two: Naval blockade only, this should strangle them out, and Germany's formidable resources should be able to handle them. Or three; don't intervene and build up our own forces for their seemingly inevitable swing up here."

Another member raised an objection.

"Sir? How can we be certain that they're going to act immediately? Shouldn't we wait a week, to see how things go?"

The director protested, but everyone else agreed, and so the official recommendation of "wait and see" was passed along. The commission used the example of Pompeii- if he'd waited for Julius's force to disintegrate, he would've won The new King of England -Elizabeth had stepped down to go skydiving, after breaking Victoria's record- was an activist; he called forth no prime minister, and no cabinet positions. But the King decided that the recommendation of M15 was the best option. Prince William had abdicated after a brief rule to let his son, Prince Henry of Wales, rule. He had always talked about how he'd change things about the monarchy, but no one thought he'd get the chance.

* * *

_Reichstag, Germany, 2036_

In Germany, the intelligence folks had scrambled and their plans have been made: Wait for them to come in, and call on all their citizenry and ask for Belgians to intervene heavy-handedly. Initiate a strategic turning movement, cut them off, and destroy them down to a man. They couldn't afford to make the first strike; NATO would blame them. All of their generals had assembled to divide and amass the troops

General Saddam Achmed, mostly a P.R. appointment, was the first force delegated; a relatively small army of 20,000 to entrench outside of Berlin; however, the media announcement wouldn't be made until France's official declaration of war was announced.

Saddam Achmed protested, "But my esteemed comrades, how can you afford to entrust the defenses of Berlin with only twenty-thousand men; that's half the size of their force, protecting a gigantic metropolitan area. Do you love the Fatherland that little, that you delegate a pittance of the force required to defend her greatest jewels? If the turning movement fails, then you'll need a strong power base, you will need a solid secondary strategy, and most of all, a strong leader in the time of crisis to administrate it. I am certainly not the third, but I can provide the first two, with a force of sixty thousand- leaving you still with roughly 160,000 men to complete the operation "Nonsense!" they all cried, "Why would we weaken our main attack?"

"Well, Julius Caesar did it, when he realized Pompeii was going to try to flank him, with the result that Pompeii lost all of his cavalry in that charge, and losing the battle, and ultimately, the war."

They shot down that plan; the 220,000 men for the main flank would divide between Rhineland-Pfalz province and Baden-Wurttemberg province and when the enemy emerged from the pointy tip of France, the Rhineland force would march straight down and then turn, cutting off their direct line of supply, while the Baden force cut off their advance and slowly encircled them and destroyed them.

* * *

_Russia, Saint Petersburg, Winter Palace, 2036_

In Russia, they had made the recommendation of military intervention on the side of the Germans, with all available troops, and nuclear weaponry if necessary. Grigor, the President from the new general election, was scheduled to make a statement later today to his cabinet and the Duma.

The plan they'd put together went: Number one, get the approval of the German Parliament. And number two, take a hundred thousand men or so, put them on ships in St. Petersburg, down the Baltic Sea to Hamburg, and they would bolster whatever force they had guarding Berlin. Highest estimates had the French force at 100,000, and with the undoubtedly large force the Germans had guarding their most precious city, the French force would be summarily crushed.

Thierry had the troops assemble when he'd seen the proclamation come. He wore a smoky, dark grey uniform, patched almost unnoticeably with all the signs of a hundred years of age and care. If one had to say, you would say that this uniform had been worn for a single tour of duty and then cherished for a hundred years. No. This had been worn for ten different tours of duty; three his, seven Thierry's fathers. His father's medals were in his trunk, along with his white, leather, gilded script Quran, and his mother's necklace that she gave to him when Paris fell to the American forces, along with the family's heirlooms. She was raped and killed by a pair of psychos that went on to become senators. As an ex-sergeant and strict study of Roman Military History, he knew the key to winning a war was not being the general who stood behind the lines and let his soldiers do the dying, but to be before them and tell them to hurry up. To take a piss in the Rhine, like Patton. To be one of them.

He patrolled the line and saw one soldier standing out of line- just slightly but still imperfect. He turned to face the soldier and the soldier started to sweat. In a flash of lightning, he punched the soldier right in the groin, and followed up with a kick. Hussein finally said, "That is what I do if someone disobeys or is imperfect. I am not a hard man to please; be perfect and you will be fine. However, I do reward those who deserve it." He then tossed down a wad of five thousand Euros down at the man's feet, as he had gotten back up and stood back, perfectly in line, along with an ice pack. The man looked like he dearly wanted to bend down.

"Alright son, that was the final test. You may bend down and retrieve your reward." He pulled another set of papers out of his pocket, put his official seal to them, along with another set of accoutrements and a uniform, and said, "You are now my second in command, with the rank of Marshall and all the entitlements thereof" He took the old parchment, signed, round robbin, by the President, Prime Minister, and the heads of the military, as required by tradition of monumental proclamations. "In the year of our lord 2036, the People of France hereby declare a state of open warfare, armed strife, and conflict with the Sovereign State of Germany, with the sole aim of getting said state to surrender said sovereignty in reparations for a thousand well-documented years of uncompensated damages."

"In other words, get into those tanks and let's kick some Hunnic ass back to the Roman Age."

He knew that now, he had an army that would storm Constantinople blindfolded if he asked them to. That really warmed his heart- with his job, he was used to analyzing every other sentence. At least, he could be at peace for the week they curved to Berlin. There were two things about this trip that worried him: Number one, was the German tendency to cut off supply lines. He had a solution he hoped he wouldn't have to pull out for that one. Think William Tecumseh Sherman.

He might also have to pull triage with his army. He had the perfect place. Reach that place, and the march to Berlin would be protected, at whatever the cost was. And he had an ace in the hole if the German army was more prepared than he anticipated. Second was the first of the journey, where he would be much more vulnerable to flanking maneuvers than he would be near the end. The one thing he could not stand, however, was the intervention of another power. This whole operation was dependent on avoiding German strengths and severing their jugular as immediately as possible. With a measure of legitimacy from German surrender treaties, the French would be able to intervene much more heavily.

* * *

_Landeau, Germany, 2036_

Meanwhile, Ron Jr. was walking into an Internet café. He ordered a chai tea- one of the few things that actually kept him calm. He pulled out a laptop, and the world of electronics trembled. He started hacking. He found the opposing security protocols and firewalls, and ravaged them. Like your average supermodel, they put up virtually no defense, and were broken in two. He then swung the full force of his powers to the main bodies of the German power plant networks, and the Belgian ones as well. He scheduled the turbines to start over-producing in accordance with the schedule of Hussein's military movements. He would have to continue to monitor the network, but for the most part, he would hide in plain sight in cities near the Army- playing a gig or two occasionally, because he had to keep up appearances, and he always loved seeing the emotions run high at concerts.

He thanked the waitress for his tea, and then looked at the screen as he was savoring the first sip of his chai. He did a double take and spat it out, causing quite a mess. His heart started pounding- there was one power plant, for a German town that sponsored a base- right next to the Belgian border. They would be as lit up as Times Square on New Year's, and would detect Hussein's army, and he'd be caught between the full 48,000 men of the Belgian army, and probably at least 30,000 German men. The "bloodless" quality of this mission was built on deception, and keeping it bloodless was their best probability of success.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey, y'all. I'm hoping this is relatively quickly put up, compared to the 1-2 gap. Because the cliffhanger is much, much more evil the next time. I hope there's someone out there reading this, at least. I can't know, because one guy has reviewed. Even if you say it sucked, I just want to know you invested five seconds to read the first few words. Thank you, Jose F. for reviewing.

* * *

_Berlin, Sweat filled hell-hole, 2036_

Twenty thousand men can dig. Twenty thousand men can dig a lot. But not nearly enough, as Saddam Achmed's learned, sweat pouring off his brow, shovel in hand. High command had made the decision that the enemy, if it came, was going to be trying for a frontal assault, ergo he was fortifying mainly the west side of Berlin. Earthworks, five foot below, extended a hundred foot from the trenches, themselves twenty foot deep and ten foot wide and lined with steel spokes that pointed outward. These were behind a corresponding twenty foot high wall of earth, able to be rebuilt or demolished at the drop of a hat. However, the defenses weren't complete. Why? Against orders, on his own gut, he'd ordered five thousand men to dig a ten by ten trench around the north and south of Berlin- he remembered his history lessons about the Maginot Line.

By now, the other generals were in their respective cities, enjoying their comforts. General Heinrich Merkel was at this moment in Landau in der Pfalz, and General Adalbert Braun was in Gaggenau, the two leaders of this operation.

* * *

_Highway, Germany, 2036_

"Heinrich Merkel. Born two-thousand, Height six feet, and weight three hundred pounds. It is rumored he bribes the physical examiner to not notice how he can barely even say the word 'push-up' let alone do one. He enjoys pastries, especially cherry pfannkuchen topped with almonds. He always has one with his morning and evening tea, and is serenaded to sleep by the sounds of Bach." He looked up from the bio he'd gotten online, from the CVB secure server, and he got off the taxi, took his motorcycle from off the top of the taxi, and tossed the man the change Ron owed him. He needed a secure place, and a taxi's one place you can encounter a man too crazy to listen to anything you're saying. Sure, you almost die every other second, but if you are trained to ignore screeching metal clashing together, then it's a good place to read classified information. He has a personal butler that goes with him everywhere he goes to prevent someone from murdering him."

Of course, the paranoid were the people who ended up dead the most.

He went after him first, because his death wouldn't be as big a surprise- they say his men have a betting pool on how long it'll take for his heart to give out. The longest time, by the optimist who honestly believed that France was just gearing up for a public works project on the border, was a year. The shortest was the twenty fourth of July, tomorrow; Ron Jr. was out to make someone a wealthy man. The military expedition was launched on the twenty second for one very good reason- then was when France surrendered in World War Two.

Before he could get his motorcycle started, his cell phone rang. A total of two people on the face of the planet knew the number for this secret, secure line. He checked the number and saw it was the one he wanted to hear from.

"Hey baby. How have you been?"

"You know well enough not to call me baby, _Ronniekins_."

"Ouch. Sorry Jax, sweetie. We're still on for that dinner in Rheims, right honey? You're going to get some actual champagne, from Champagne."

"Now that's the Ronnie I remember. So how's the mission going. Gone insane yet?"

"Yep. I killed three hundred and fifty two people yesterday. Boy, are my hands tired."

"Ha! But seriously, be safe. I always worry about you when you go on these missions. So much can go wrong, every minute. I mean, it's not like you have my healing mutation and can heal from multiple near-fatal bullet wounds."

"Honey, hearing that's all I need. You are my pharaoh; if you say day is night, it shall be written. If you say you need the moon five inches to the left, it shall be done. If you say you need me alive, I shall live. Thus it is written, thus shall it be done."

He paused for a minute and had a brain spark.

"Oh Jax, sweetie, you're going to be in Germany for your summer classes, right? Can you do me a favor? Take the weekend off and head up to Brussels. I'm sure His Majesty won't mind."

His Majesty was her professor for the summer course she was taking- German History. The professor also happened to be her brother- no one else wanted the job of teaching her, no matter how well she paid.

He started his motorcycle and quickly arrived at his destination. He walked to the back of the building, and started walking up the roof. He then set up his sniper's hideout in the corner- in the middle of a tribe of trash-bags, waiting for the perfect opportunity

Finally, night dropped like a hammer. He saw the sickly, tall, and obviously French butler, as was his habit, out for a walk while his master took in the sounds that gave him peace from the voices of his unstable psyche, and temporary relief from his virtually permanent sleep apnea, which woke him up several times a night.

Ron Jr. removed his Remington, made sure the silencer was as safely secure as a babe swaddled in silk, and put it up to his shoulder. He was about two-thousand meters away- roughly fifteen hundred of those straight down. He held his breath for the moment it took him to aim and get the rhythm of Pierre's step. Pierre wandered next to an alley and Ron Jr. squeezed the trigger. He pulled out a plastic glider, unfolded it, and glided over to the next rooftop. Ron then cut an angle sharply down so that he landed right next to Pierre. He took the man into the alley, and, with no small measure of disgust, stripped himself and the other man. He put on Pierre's clothes and gloves, and went in to the man's room.

Day broke, and he heard a bell, which was Pierre's signal to himself to get up. He took the extract out of the backpack he'd brought inside last night, and put it in a small teabag. It soaked in and began to turn pale pink- he covered it up with some food dye and sprinkled a concoction- cocaine and cyanide, just enough cyanide to kill, and enough cocaine for an overdose- in the pastry he baked. He didn't have anywhere near his father's talent, but he was forced to learn for himself on the days when he was out in the wilds on a mission, where you could either fricassee your comrade's remains and have a morbid supper, or die of starvation.

One way or another, Heinrich's days were numbered. The pastry and teacup were sat on a silver dish. At 8:00 exactly, the door opened, and the platter was sat down. He raced outside, picked up his gear, and ran as fast as he could. His motorcycle was the only thing anyone would ever see of him in this town again. The only thing he had to do was stop at a country gas station- Pierre's penguin suit was killing him. He found one that looked like it had been washed in the past century, and stopped. He went inside and paid the five cents to use the bathroom. The bathroom was dirty, but at least there was no visible mold. He took off the monkey suit, and lit it on fire. This was a necessary step; his DNA was plastered all over that. To be fair, the CVB did the same thing at HQ; never was a pair of clothes reused. While he was putting his own gear back on, he pondered the impact of what he'd just done.

That high-profile death would get the country's attention- and Thierry's. They'd agreed that he would pause before Aachen- which was the town he was worried about- if that happened. He'd just made the deadline. He would now race north. A thought struck him. He flipped open his cellphone, and made a call he'd hoped he could avoid making. "Melody, sis. I really need some help here. I need something..."

* * *

_Reichstag, Berlin, Germany, 2036_

Wiglaff Hussein walked up to the guard.

His hair was shiny, black, and slicked back with just a hint of hair gel. His skin was perfumed very lightly, and he was dressed in a tailor-made suit and the highest of high end shoes, with a suitcase to match. He introduced himself, and showed his pass and walked on by. The building was a few hundred meters away, and the board meeting was on the second floor. He chatted up the door guard and laughed at the off-color joke the officer learned from his doctor, and he was buzzed through. He received some more than cursory glances from some women, and gave them some smiles, reassuring them he would see them again soon. He finally managed to board the elevator. The German Chancellor was finally meeting with his generals to discuss the situation. Wiglaff walked in a little late.

He opened up his briefcase, and took out a slip of paper. He began his spiel.

"Hello, Gentlemen. As you may or may not know, I am here to represent the interests of the Islamic constituents in your population. I am also a representative of the People for the Imam's Return. Our primary purpose is to pave the way for his return, and I and my constituents that that can be most easily accomplished in a three phase plan. Number one: Assault China, bastion of anti-religious sentiment, and source of all corruption and inhumanity in the world, and one of the few sources of actual possible resistance to our glorious cause. The U.S. can try, of course, but its threat is virtually nil because of the fuel air bombs that took out New York- they project it shall take fifty more years to pick up the ashes.

Two: Get rid of your corrupt top officals, and support those near the bottom of your governmental structure who should be running it. For forty years now you have had all Germany, a large area, to command. And you have done nothing but try to deny that World War II never happened and let yourselves rest on your laurels during the glory days. The U.S. is not the great Satan. Europe is. It is a vast area, with vast population, and vast power. That it refuses to use. We have very little power but we leverage it ferociously. You are derelicts and shall soon be swept aside.

Three: Support Germany in the obviously impending war between Germany and France. The faction leading France is too moderate and too peaceful for our purposes. Gentlemen, there are approximately five minutes left before this nuclear bomb goes off. It will level this whole city block. I suggest you either call your families or pray. I shall be doing the latter. Good day."

The Germans didn't say a word; but one man on their whipped out his lap-top and uploaded the video to their secure server in Aachen, the only base left up. Their sacrifice wouldn't be in vain.

* * *

_Winter Palace, Saint Petersburg, Germany, 2036_

"The shocking scene you saw was the destruction of the German Reichstag, where the meeting was being held. There were no survivors, not even the parliament or the chancellor. And so, now, NATO has declared that it will not help the new German government, mostly Islamic, that now has withdrawn recognition from Israel. France has officially declared war on the new regime, calling it "Illegitimate and militant." Germany's response is yet to be seen. France claims no forces have yet been deployed, but buildups are apparent from most reports. The U.S. has blatantly stated it will respond to any aid to Germany with nuclear weapons." Grigor shut off his T.V. and smiled. Time for his announcement.

He walked outside, in his best suit. He was freezing cold; a small price to pay for the immense persuasive power of his literal and figurative position. There was no podium; he preferred the balcony approach.

"People of Russia, I call upon you. From the street urchin who must steal to survive to the Mafia boss whose pockets are fatter than he is, from native son to foreign Russophile, I call upon you. All who love Russia are invited; a hundred acres and a ten-year tax break, in addition to normal military pay, are to be awarded to those who answer the call. This recent atrocity is no better than the murder of the Tsar, or the installation of Communism. It is a sin more egregious than 9/11, more dastardly than Pearl Harbor. Not for a hundred years now has this been done."

"The path ahead is clear to me now! As of now, 9:35 AM, Greenwich Standard Time, I declare that the Russian Federation declares open and total war against Germany! Ware all Germans: Russia will crush those that remain in the cities, and those who stand in the way of our defense." He could hear the foundations of the world trembling under his feet.

* * *

_Germany, Undisclosed Starbucks, 2036_

"If you are just tuning in, a series of horrible events has occurred. Poland has just declared that it will, to any cost, resist the Russians invading, and will not allow them to march through. Ukraine has declared the same, as have most of the ex-soviet states. So Russia is about to reclaim all its posessions from the Soviet Union, and the U.S. has already declared that it will not help Germany, and Russia has control of the Soviet Union's nuclear arsenal, so help us God if our government reverses the decision."

"In other news, the Butler of Heinrich Merkel was found dead in an alley today, and Heinrich Merkel released this statement:

'I don't know what happened. I saw that he'd fixed me my morning snack- despite the fact that I'd told him the night before I was going on a diet. I thought it was sweet of him, but I found him dead in the alley minutes after I disposed of the treat.'

He later commented that he was going to be retiring, effective immediately. Adalbert Braun has taken command and stated that he is redeploying the German forces for a greater degree of flexibility of response. The more northerly positions have made our Be-Ne-Lux neighbors nervous, but he has reassured them, by making a Belgian his second in command, and by putting a mix of Netherlands and Luxembourg citizens in charge of his brigades and divisions, giving them full permission to disobey him if he orders something treacherous."

Jax was watching the news in her dark emerald robe, and it barely registered. _Heh, I remember Ronnie telling me something about some general and some emergency assassination or something._

Meanwhile, she downed the last of her coffee, and went out to walk the town, killing time until she could commit grand larceny and kidnapping.

* * *

_Same sweaty hell-hole, Berlin, Germany, 2036_

Meanwhile, Adalbert's forces had been redeployed to the northern border of Germany, and hugging the bottom of France's point. He now could respond quicker if Command was wrong, and if they were right, a quick strategic turning movement would starve them out in the marshes of Germany.

Saddam Achmed's forces had almost completed the side trenches, and were about to resume work on the main "Maginot line." Every day, he was more optimistic, until the new orders from command: Fortify the whole city equally; the Russians are going to be attacking Poland. Also, his forces were to be reduced by ten thousand, and all his mechanized units were to be stripped from him to bolster failing Poland. He could still make this work; he was already halfway there with his 'illegal' side trenches. So long as no one reached Berlin in 2 days- a feat Stalin and Hitler combined could never have done- he would be fine.

But he still wiped sweat from his hairy brow, brushed off his small mustache, and broke into tears. His forefathers had fought and died for Germany unto three generations; he was the last at this point, he needed to survive and find a family. His brothers had given themselves to insanity and "glory."

But he and the family would survive, by the will of Allah.

Or, as he would later claim, by his malice.

* * *

_Belgium, 2036_

Jax was in her traditional black and dark green suit. It was what she always stole in. However, what she was stealing this time gave her a pang of conscience; a person. Filip Leopold Lodewijk Maria, no less. A.K.A. King Phillipe I of the Belgians. King Leopold III of the Belgians had died when the NYC was bombed in what is now called "The Hate of Eight."

This was a necessary step because the King could be a rallying point, and his sharp analytical mind could put together some pieces that would make things very uncomfortable for Hussein.

She left a note on the bed, and couldn't resist stripping some of the more valuable objects from the room. As she was taking him to the safehouse, a jolt hit her, why the name hit her so hard earlier. She was caught on the edge of a dilemma; should she scrap the mission and tell her boyfriend or continue on and risk his injury or death?

* * *

_Highway, Germany, 2036_

There was no choice. His Royal Highness, despite his advanced age, would be stripped down, tied down, and left in a ratty hotel bed until someone was scheduled to check in there a day later. Luckily he was a CVB friendly, who would hold him there until need be. She pinned a note and a twenty to his chest and wished him the best of luck.

Ronnie, however, was more clear-minded from the start. He was on the road to Gaggenau- almost there- when his motorcycle's radio blared out the same announcement as his girlfriend had heard. He almost fell off his motorcycle. This was bad. This was horrendous. This was awful. You see, Hussein was supposed to stop only if Heinrich _died_. He had a matter of a day, at most, to cross most of France and kill the now-ex general.

But if he did that, then Adalbert would have time to, on his own, possibly detect the army, and the stoppage of supplies to the point. He'll realize that the army is now mostly through the territory. If Berlin held on for even a week- how couldn't they? They would obviously leave their strongest force there, right- then Hussein was dead.

Never had the horns of a dilemma hit him so tightly in the ass.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello. Not much to say. Hopefully y'all will enjoy this, and regardless, please drop me a line. I swear I won't get angry if you call me stupid, disorganized, rambling; it's all constructive.

But I think I have figured myself out as a writer. When my creative energies are focused, then I can slam out two thousand words in a few hours. When they are lying about, I can't slam out one.

Oh. By the way- Charleston Green. That's one part green mixed with nine parts black paint. It's from the War Between the States; after the war, the "damyankees" had loads of ugly black paint sitting around, and Charleston, beaten but unbowed, refused to use it, even though there wasn't enough paint to go around. So someone came up with the idea of mixing one part Confederate Green with nine parts Yankee Black, and so bam. In Charleston, SC, you will find nothing painted black. Everything, by law, is Charleston Green. Especially the windows and wooden window shades.

Wow. Long A/N. But, I guess I can't help telling stories. On with the show!

Ron Jr. was on his motorcycle when he got a call. His phone was the latest model from Motorola's military communications division. Over two thousand bit encryption on the signal. The signal was bounced around five different transmitters all around the world before being sent to his phone. Ron had stolen it from under the nose of the Secretary of Defense, who was at the time considering buying that phone for not just Special operations, but the Black Ops division. He gave one other person this number, with the vow that he would destroy his phone if anyone else's voice came from the other line. He had a hunch on who was calling.

"Hi honey. What is it? I'm kinda in the middle of something."

Just like always, his fiancé, Jeanine Standard.

"Sorry. But I thought you might like to know, about that general?"

"He's not dead. I know. I'm rushing there as fast as I can. I need you to do one of two things. Either kill or kidnap Adalbert; just render him unable to do his job, somehow. All his subordinates are cutthroat politicians, not hardcore warriors. They'll die while trying to pick another leader."

"Ronnie, you know my objections to violence. I will not kill him, I tell you that much."

"You don't have to. All I'm asking is that he's gone for the duration. And isn't it hypocritical for a world-class martial artist to object to violence?"

"No, it isn't. We've had this out before. Again, be careful."

"I'll be careful to leave them dental to identify him by."

He could almost hear her grimace, but neither said nothing. The conversation ended coolly. He hated when his jokes backfired like this. He put the phone back in its jet-black holster.

"God damn it."

God does not like being invoked unnecessarily.

It was Sunday. And Heinrich, for all his faults, was a Christian, newly devout. Being nearly assassinated has the tendency to do that. He was in an old Catholic church, which was built like a castle. Even the stained glass windows were lined copiously and conspicuously with wrought iron, the brick was old, and grey. Ron's first impression as he pulled up to it was that it was a mountain of holiness, still standing proudly after centuries of being lapped at by wave after wave of defilers. Upon closer examination, where the rock had been worn away, Ron saw Kevlar underneath the holy stone.

Looking at the church, Ron grimaced when he calculated out the space. He could take down a man, guaranteed, up to three thousand meters with his sniper rifle. He was also good with a sword, complemented by his parentage- MMP was hereditary- and his love of the sight of blood- especially his. Given a pistol, he couldn't hit the dirt. Between a three and a hundred meters, he was uncomfortable, and in a real situation, would either charge, dodge, or otherwise move into his comfortable range.

So this was an uncomfortable situation for him. He refused to go on a mass murdering spree- that was the job of _the beast_, the only name the CVB give the ones who killed their father.

So he whipped out his sword and skidded down the building, using the sword to stop himself. As a CVB member, he didn't settle for anything less than the best when it came to his weapons, so it was a full Katana- a sister to the Lotus Blade, which fractured when Ron died- forged in all the old methods with a blessing inscribed on the hilt.

_May your days be long_

_May your clan have its honor_

_May this sword save you_.

Ironic, indeed. He rode for a fall, in a clan whose name was slightly more muddied than Hitler's, and used this sword to end many a life.

The chapel had emptied, except for the priest and Heinrich. He walked into the chapel. He pulled out night vision sunglasses that he carried with him- standard survival equipment- and found the back chamber. He found Heinrich on his knees, and the priest in full regalia, in an obviously shabbily built confessional- the pine wood was rough and unpolished, the window of the confessional jury-rigged plastic from a junkyard car. Despite that, Ron closed the door, some sense of occasion settling over him. Heinrich started.

"Hello, _Pierre_. I don't know exactly what the pastry was laced with, but I fed it to my dogs and they died instantly. But I really should thank you. You led me here. You redeemed me. I realized that Hell is what I was headed toward. I couldn't cheat my Maker. My number was called that night, but God decided to stay my fate one night that my soul would be saved. I prayed he would let me live long enough to see my Father.

The voices in my head, the hellish screams of the civilians I tortured in the war with France, fell silent. The demons that had haunted my sinful, hedonist life for years had fallen silent. I have looked into a man's eyes before, as my men took sledgehammers to his house, his wife, his son and everything he loved. Every blow a sin. Every blow another ghost that haunts me at night. Seeing hellfire in a dying man's eyes is the worst experience on earth. I would rather gut myself with razor wire.

I finally accepted His forgiveness and redemption. You need to keep in mind that redemption is as easy as facing up to yourself, and forgiving yourself for your sins after you ask God to forgive you. You should not hold yourself to a higher standard than the Almighty holds you to. To do so is blasphemy. I know you. You do not sleep easy at night either. None of us that live in shadow do.

Kill me now, for it is the best sleep I shall ever have. Father is here, and will be here for whenever you need him."

Ron was so moved by the speech that he stood there. He then hefted the sword and sliced off the man's head. As it left his head, the sword broke evenly in two, but it didn't fade from its pale glow. Ron knew something must be up, but he wasn't worried. He could fix it.

"Father… We'll meet again. His speech was moving- he's the most stoic man I've ever killed. But I've got Armageddon to set off before I come to get redemption for it."

The priest removed his collar and resolved to burn it. This was the last straw on his road to losing faith in humanity.

Jax was stuck to the roof of a building, wondering how the hell her boyfriend, her confidant, the one person she trusted in the world, could've stuck her in a situation as screwed up as this one. You see, Adalbert was a staunch atheist, but he did have his traditions. He was a WWII fanatic. He loved to study the what-ifs.

Jax took the time to analyze him. Adalbert was an old man, there's no doubt. But he was a serious old man. His head was entirely bald, he was thin, tall, and straight-standing. His suit was clean, and as grey as the wisps on his head.

He would stay in the cellar for hours at the time. She'd staked out his house, and there was one time he was vulnerable: Walking from his simulator he'd built to test the what ifs, to bed. He kept the simulator in the basement and on the second floor was a window where the wash was hung. She would grab him, hurl him onto the next roof, and jump to him. But her arms were very nearly exhausted. She could hear her Sifu's Long Island cut of a voice: _Standard! Stop those shaking legs! It's mind over matter: If you don't mind, it don't matter! It is __**at least**__ eighty percent mental and __**at most**__ twenty percent physical! _

Jax smiled despite herself, and Adalbert finally gave up the ghost. He leaned back, yawned, clicked save, and walked upstairs. She flipped down and landed quietly. She crept up behind him and grabbed the sides of his head. She used the pyrokinetic abilities she inherited from her mother to spawn some plasma, just enough to knock him out.

She carried him out the window and dropped him in the trashcan in the alley with a bottle of water there in his hands. He could lift it and shake it, but the whole thing would spill out if he tried to knock himself over. The trash men always checked the cans here, so he would survive- but still, he wouldn't be recognized without a uniform.

Jax still had her conscience screaming at her, asking her how she could even take the chance that he would be crushed. Asking her how she could do this to someone who could've been her grandfather. She shut it up by popping some Vikadin.

Now, to Aachen.

Ron now had one task left: Head to Berlin, and undermine the defenses there. The obvious method? Kill the general in charge. Ron considered the impact of the news reports he'd gotten after getting back on his bike were that the Red Army was pushing forward. China had declared war on the Islamic Nation, to get retribution for the destruction of Beijing- the source of the nukes had been "leaked." It wouldn't be easy on either party; the Islamic Nation had virtually all of the world's oil supplies, but China had a full fifth of the world's population. They'd relaxed economic controls, and their population had boomed to 2 billion by this point, the world's was roughly 10 billion. The Islamic Nation had the sands that had kept it concealed for thousands of years… China had enough bodies to turn all the sand in Arabia red. Most of the world was already devastated; the CVB and GJ virtually were law in America, the I.N. had culturally conquered the E.U, and so this had the potential to leave the world in ruins, just like World War I… except, no power would have the resources to wage a "recovery" war.

Ron focused. He still had to take down the Aachen power systems, but he would get his girlfriend to do the dirty work there. As Aachen was an alternative-power haven, and a long-standing power supplier, the simplest way was to hook into the one spot where the power grids all converged, and create a huge drain on the power there. Almost as big a drain as when Arnold Schwarzenegger goes for a tan. His method of choice was one of his own inventions- just a lightbulb with near-infinite resistance. Shines real bright, thick filament, but requires the power grid of a whole city. And they'd spend ages finding it.

Schwarzenegger had stepped down from being governor to do the second trilogy of Terminator movies. They'd also brought forward James Cameron, _finally_, some fans cried, to do all three movies

But back to the task at hand. He would need to enter the base and either kill or persuade the general to abandon his post. Saddam Achmed was a good, strong man- but either one of the above methods of removal shouldn't prove too difficult. He stopped his motor cycle, and climbed into the sewer. Hey, no one said creating the apocalypse was glamorous.

Great minds, as has often been noted, think alike. That is why Jax Standard was at that very moment wearing a green-black outfit, that was temporarily greenish brown. Jax had her nose sealed shut and her mouth filtered through her teeth. Every time she took a step, she was glad she didn't clean these things for a living. She pulled herself onto the ladder which had just materialized. She emerged into the pitch black University grounds. She stole across the grounds, creeping through the long Belgian grass. She saw a night owl inside the security building. She looked down and grabbed a rock.

She studied the guard's activity. God bless OCD people. every five minutes, he would reach down and sip his coffee, and every thirty, he would get a new cup. When he got up, he would be at the depths. She waited until he got up- and threw the rock. He walked out, and she crept in behind him. He searched the grounds with his flashlight, as she hacked the servers with her prowess. Prowess here meaning the standard basics taught her by her boyfriend- enough to get past this one computer and inside. She stole the guard's all-access pass, just for good measure.

She snuck in the door, and then stood tall. None could question her now; the God of Bureaucracy now stood irrevocably with her. Men never questioned things when they didn't have a good reason to. Law of survival. Ungh. Me have card. Card hurt you if you challenge card. Shamanism, repackaged. Ten thousand years and yet Man's essence hasn't changed since Adam, Eve, Satan and the Apple.

The power lab was at the center of the building, cushioned by a ten-foot-thick concrete wall, just in case someone like _Ronnie_ were to try to get in there and mess around. Fortunately, the one guard staying there eyeballed her pass and let her through. The power supply for the entire city converged on this giant structure. She removed the bulb from the case and proceeded to install it in a dark corner. She heard footfalls in the distance. Mister Doppler effect said they were getting closer. She heard a gun cock in the distance. Not good. All of this told her two things: One: She was facing a cop- only they'd have guns in here. Two: She was facing a newbie. No old salty cop ever watched the monitors this late- or drew his gun first. In most cases, new cops had the highest mortality rates- crusaders, too used to the ideal of protect and serve, not believing corruption could exist in the brotherhood.

Ron emerged from the sewer. The base around him was fairly spartan, except for an office sized glass cylinder on top of the building. The grass was well tended, and the chain link fence was kept from public eye. The only weakness was this sewer hatch that they had to have, in case of siege, which also allowed him to get in. The building was made of ordinary brick, painted pale green, for the army, with a simple guard box out front.

Ronnie pulled out his rifle immediately after leaving the hole. _First priority is to kill someone and take their pants and underwear_. He had killed people for less. He had, at one point, actually followed a man who cut him off home, watched and waited. Okay, there was an extenuating circumstance. He was cheating on his wife.

But back to business. He saw a wino security guard in the guard box, smashed him in the back of the head with his rifle, knocking him out, and quickly raided his clothes, deciding to put on the whole outfit and stow his gear for later. He carried only a pendant and a ring with him. The ring was his engagement ring. The pendant was for if the fecal matter truly had an encounter with the rapidly oscillating bladed device. A.K.A. if the shit hit the fan.

He walked inside, and inevitably found Saddam's office, located on the top floor. It was the one with glass all around for a good survey of the strategic outline of the city and a desk, big enough to lay out a map.

Jax put her game face on. It had been a while since her bullshit muscles got a workout. She stood up at a comfortable angle- not so straight as to be challenging or cold, but not so lax as to suggest a layman.

"Hello, officer. Just coming around to check on my contribution to the latest experiment. I thought I saw a rat over here- but I was mistaken."

"Yeah, right. What's with the dirty get-up?"

"I was experimenting with fuels for my part of the project; an accident in the chemistry lab, the old baking soda and vinegar reaction rehashed with much stinkier and much more disgusting chemicals. I took that as a sign to come down here to put this in and go home for the night."

"Where's your ID?"

She stamped her foot. "Dammit, I knew I left something back at the lab. If you'd allow me to run to the lab, I could get it for you and be back in a second."

He lowered the gun, and she was beginning to run out, and the cop came closer to her "experiment." She decided to give him a parting gift, just in case he had a brain. Not likely at this hour of night, even though he was supposed to be a security guard. She took aim and hit him square on the pressure point on the side of the jaw with a narrow beam of Charleston Green flames.

As it was night, he would forever swear up and down, that they were black. She would grin, and tell him, no, they were Charleston Green. The CVB had a trip there when planning the New York bombing, and she heard the story and liked it so much- she had never before known how to describe her flames. And it was a wonderful icebreaker. Or melter.

She coolly strolled out the front door, and grimaced as she remembered that the most disgusting part lay ahead- getting back to good old Paris- after a stop in Berlin.

He stood atop the peaks of Oblivion. This may sound metaphorical; no. The stink of death, of ruin, of finality was in the air. The weight, the screams of millions could already be felt. It bowed Ron Jr.'s back. He looked on with sadness, before he saw a general, so unobtrusive as to be part of the scenery, rise from his chair. He felt suddenly as if he should have a lightsaber in his hand. He idly wondered, what color would it be? Would he be the one tempting, trying to lure the hero to the dark side? Or would he be the one trying to save the universe from and through damnation? Or, could the two roles be the same?

Enough B.S. He was here to kill and he knew it. He said, "Unless I am mistaken, you are Saddam Achmed. Graduated valedictorian from high school, refused the honor because your parents came here illegally- or were accused of it. Joined the military because no college would take you. Spat on as you rose through the ranks, because you were the only one in your units who lodged objections that proved to always, without fail, be right. And still looked down on by your fellow generals."

Saddam stirred indistinctly.

"You forgot one thing. I have sworn, repeatedly, oaths of loyalty. I have borne those indignities for the Fatherland. I would bear the cross of Jesus of Nazareth, would lead an army into Russia in the winter, would dash headlong across the field into a machinegun nest for my country. Why? Germany is an old country, but one that has been known for its poor leadership. I know, if I can set an example, become a leader, that we can streamline Germany, make it better, maybe even challenge the U.S. for dominance of the world."

"Then we work for the same goals- the army already headed this way has been instructed to only shell the Reichstag- to destroy the very agency which binds and poisons the veins of your country, which you love. Would you betray her by allowing those who you yourself despise to stay in power?"

"Nice try. But authority is king over power. They have had the free and fair approval of the people, and I must therefore defend them. Do you have a sword?"

"Why, yes I do. Why do you ask?"

He removed the _talwar_ (Arabian broadsword) from its blood-red sheathe. He said, "Trial by combat."

Ron Jr. sighed reluctantly. He removed his pendant, grasped the center, and brandished it, willing it into a katana, permeated by a pale glow. He dropped into a basic stance and circled around the room. He tested the weight of his sword, adjusting it slightly so it was perfectly balanced. He noticed that Achmed had a slight tilt to his arm- age or fatigue, he couldn't say. But the effect was, he left his back side open. Ron feinted to the belly and swirled to where the head should be. He then twisted the side of the blade to block the incoming strike to the forehead, which he parried and tried to cut open the arm with, but failed.

The battle went on, Ron Jr and Achmed in the deadly dance of old, where individual skill, not unit strength, won the war. They both took hours to tire; they were almost as fit as Lance Armstrong in his heyday, but age still effects the body. Achmed made the first mistake. He dropped the arms an inch too low, and allowed Ron Jr. to get in a nick to his ear. From then on, the battle shifted. Every twenty minutes or so, his hand would drift down or up far enough to allow Ron Jr. to get that one nick in.

Back in the days where Ug and Chug fought with sticks, the prize of prizes was the wooly mammoth. But Ug and Chug couldn't get it; they wanted that mammoth, it was just too big! So they kept on attacking and attacking, and ended up killing it, after poking about a thousand holes in it.

Death by a thousand cuts, that's what happened to Saddam. He fell ungracefully. He finally couldn't lift his arms above his chest, and Ron was about to cut his head off when he heard a voice whisper in his ear… "So when's the wedding?" He nearly defecated in his gluteal coverings, also known by the highly technical term of "shitting one's pants."

"Jax, you nearly gave me a heart attack! And to answer your question, after we get rid of Rome!"

But Saddam survived, taken to a hospital, and nursed back to health.

"And so, now that France has for all intents and purposes conquered Germany- with no casualties on either side- the new transnational state of Frermany has been produced. Their first product will be a BMW that smells like cheese. Russia, in other news…" Grigor Romanov shut off the television. That was, to him, old news, on all three counts. Of course, the russian news hadn't officially happened yet; he was about to make it happen. All he had to do was walk out onto the balcony and pronounce it.

An onlooker would say that all Russia had gathered here. It was almost indistinguishable from coronations or speeches of the more popular Tsars. In the same place that Nicholas II had effectively committed political suicide; the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. The new seat of the government. Another world-shaking announcement was about to be made, causing horrors like the first.

"My Comrades. Russia has been behind in environmentalism for far too long. After the Bolsheviks seized power, we neglected the environment. We have abused Mother Russia for thousands of years, and the last hundred and twenty have been different in only that we have moved from the foreplay to the actual rape. We are raping the Motherland, and we need to stop it right now. Ever since the Industrial Revolution, we have been taking and taking with no thought for giving back. In the past thirty years, the conscience of the world has truly been stirred. Therefore, I declare, we are immediately taking steps to stop the atrocities we are committing. First off: The Save Russia act is hereby passed. The horrible destruction wrought on our native soil, and her native soul, will be reversed. We will no longer be taking natural gas, oil, or any fossil fuel as imports or doing any ourselves. The removal of those products destabilizes the Earth herself, and is disrespectful. I realize the transition will be hard, but we can do it together. For the sake of Russia!"

The crowd cheered. Any one of them would've stood in horror at the insanity of the pronouncement. But a master manipulator made them cheer at the abolishment of the lives of almost literally all Russia- many a Russian just barely survived with their lamps, cars to drive to market, and other necessities.

"In 1848, we drilled our first oil well. And Russia's first grave. Now, almost two hundred years later, we say enough! Second on the agenda: No Minks Extinct Act! Passed! All of Russia's wildlife is now on the Protected Species of Russia list, and all import, export, sales, and businesses relating to, animal parts, are gone. All animal related products are to be surrendered to the police immediately, even furs. That means no beef jerky, no pemmican, and for the love of God, no eggs and ham. I realize it will be a difficult transition; I myself will miss the Katlyeti (meat cakes) my mother used to make on cold winter days. The animals of Russia replenish the land, carry us, and we ask them for more? And we repay them by killing, eating, and wearing them! I think their load is quite enough!"

Now he had damned everyone in Russia to starvation and freezing. Meat was the only thing some of the villagers of the outer extremities could rely on. Beef jerky was the only thing that lasted long enough for some hunters, backwoodsmen, and some villagers to live off during lean times. And the furs were the only thing that kept every Russian from freezing, when January rolled around. It would be like Hitler, but a hundred thousand times worse. But the zombies cheered, blissful as ever to their demise.

"And last and definitely not least, the Russia Loves Her Soldiers act is passed. Soldiers can now only be convicted in a courtmartial if two eyewitnesses step forward, with sufficient corroborating evidence to rule it out beyond the shadow of a doubt. We will not tolerate slander, libel, or 'dissing' those who give life and limb to protect Russia; they continue to give, serve, and protect, and we continue to falsely prosecute him."

And of course, he had just made himself Caesar to the troops. There was now not one soldier, one cadet, or one soldier's wife or widow who would oppose him.

And most disturbing of all, the crowd was chanting. Chanting "Long Live the Tsar."


	5. Chapter 5

I'm sorry, I had to restructure the plot a little. I think y'all will like this chapter a bit more. Some good old fashioned angst and character development.

* * *

_Winter Palace, 2036, early morning._

The ruler of Russia, Tsar in all but title, was quaking in his bed. The sweat streamed off his body, the sheets clutched to his chest. In his head, he was still screaming.

* * *

_Moscow, 1970_

The ten year old Romanov, ex-noble-to-be, grandson of a branch of the family that had fallen out of favor, shivered. He had on his back the barest rags, brown leathers that did little more than hide his shame. His proud blue eyes were looking down at the brown horse dung that was now his job to shovel, for two reasons. First off, the stable he was shoveling currently would be his home for the foreseeable future, and second, he would not eat for a week if he did not get the stable clean by tomorrow.

The sadist behind him wasn't making his job any easier. He was using a long whip. Every few minutes, when the boy had gotten into the rhythm of cleaning, and might be able to lessen his misery, the bastard would whip him as he was leaning to dump the shovel into the barrel- covering him in the filth.

After that, Grigor had to go in the back, remove his clothes, and change into a new set of rags. He ran out of clothes and had to clean the stables in the nude. Finally, as he was about to lift the last shovel to the barrel, Satan snapped the whip- and Grigor's mind snapped with it. He fell to the ground, and surrendered his humanity. He prayed that any deity, any Power that Be would just take the pain away. Then the lashes came faster- the new "boyar" didn't like having his fun taken away. The thoughts grew less and less coherent until thoughts had no room to exist, only the pain. He thought he was about to become unconscious when the man walked to a nearby refrigerator, which, despite this being the sixties, looked like it was from before the Great Patriotic War. The man picked out the last pickle, stuck it in his mouth for safekeeping, and dumped the brine on Grigor's body. Grigor just screamed.

* * *

_Vomit Stained Bed, Winter Palace, 2036, early morning._

Attendants came rushing. What could be so as to disturb such a confident and powerful man? His sheets wet with sweat and vomit. He stood up weakly, answering their pleas.

"I'm fine. No, really, just a nightmare."

"But sir- you vomited and sweated as if you'd run a marathon- how can it have just been a nightmare?"

"Trust me. just some old war wounds and memories acting up again."

The maids came in and changed the sheets. He couldn't get to sleep again. How could anyone get to sleep after that nightmare? He nursed some coffee- black, his hands would've shaken the sugar and milk all over.

After two hours of caffeine and War and Peace, he was ready to get dressed. He went to his closet, and felt his old uniform, to remember the glory days and give him some confidence after that nightmare, the fur lining splitting, the insignia on top feeling older than even he felt, the hammer and sickle peeling off with time, even the star, sword and shield of the KGB rusting. What a time he'd had getting that one.

* * *

_Saint Petersburg, Romanov Residence, 1980_

"But I hear that they are in here, right now. The Americans have a spy in this neighborhood! Have you ever heard supposed Mr. Stoyanovich talk? His Russian has the Chinese tinge to it."

"So what? A lot of people do."

"Yes. Near _China_. But we are in _Sankt-Petersburg_, hundreds, thousands of miles away from the Chinese border."

"Well, I don't care what you do. Accuse him if you want. Leave me out of it. So long as this government pretends to pay me, I'll pretend to work."

"I'm not going to turn him in! We could provoke war, or even slow the fall of the Communists!"

At that, the young man behind the door had to hold his breath to keep from jumping through. He waited for the conversation to end, and for the lazy man and the traitor to stop talking. He threw the door wide open. The man was his father, and the woman, his mother.

They had both been tortured, but as they swore oaths of loyalty, they were reluctantly let go and had managed to scrape together a life. He stood there, in shock. The only parents he'd ever known were traitors.

"Son, what is it? What's wrong? Are you sick? Did you have a nightmare?"

"I think I'm going to be sick. Anyway, what were you two just talking about? I could hear snatches as I was walking up the hall, but not anything coherent."

"Son, we were just talking about the weather, what's been going on in the neighborhood, nothing more. Go to bed; it's almost ten!"

And now they had lied to him. There was no question what must now be done. He was an honest man. If they had just told him the truth, he may have been able to torture himself over what to do. But, even his parents didn't rank above the State. He stepped out into the Russian air, with a shiver not related to the cold. The Army base where he is stationed is just down the road. This suburb doesn't have a police station. You didn't need one. The soldiers kept people in line out of terror. He shuffled down the street, slowly and sadly.

He'd been fishing in Lake Onega once with his parents… He could still remember his father's grand outfit, the tassels he played with all day long. They didn't catch any fish, but they had a good time. And now he was about to end the good times forever. He stopped. There was a door in front of him, and never before had it seemed so foreboding. Step through the door and surrender his soul, or back away and surrender his life?

For the God of the state.

* * *

_Winter Palace, 2036, mid morning._

That was the day he started earning his KGB badge. Turning in your own parents was one of the few things that automatically earned you a spot at the academy. He passed through the academy easily- apparently, blood did make all the difference- then, over the next few years, he'd struggled up the cloak-and-dagger ladder of the KGB, betraying every confidence he made, even his training partner from the academy- who had been days away from throwing the USSR into chaos. He'd been poised near the head of the department. He had enough men for a coup d'etat- becoming Premier of the Soviet Union, Head of the KGB, and Ruler of Russia. But then the Berlin Wall fell. With it, his hopes and dreams fell too.

His dreams twice shattered. He would've been a noble, maybe Tsar if the communists hadn't deposed his grandfather's second cousin twice removed- or whatever his relation was to the Tsar. So for a second time, he signed a pact with the Devil. This time, he signed with actual blood, his humanity already signed over, mingling it with that of Kim Possible. After Ron's death, she had founded the CVB. But over time, bitterness had taken hold, and she now only went out when GJ was involved. Being raped by your husband because his post at GJ drove him insane will do that.

Shego was better off; she had liked Ron, yes, but didn't grow up with him, and she already had a husband. Her twins- Jenine and Jacques Standard- grew up with a father, and were so much tamer than the non-"Standard" CVB.

Grigor, of course, was one of the "elderly youngster" generation. He was older than anyone else at the CVB, even Kim, but he joined with the hopes of ascending- within and without the organization.

Grigor's next job was to walk down and manage the Duma. It had voted the power to rule by decree to him, because of the destruction of Beijing, and half the Duma had been in his pocket anyway. That was more than enough to ensure that the veto- a simple majority- was never employed. He had decreed that the Duma would, from now on, be picked entirely by him. Ceremonially retaining the veto. He dismissed the half that wasn't in his pockets, made it illegal to criticize his actions, and that was that.

He saw an old man as he walked down the hall of the . He put on his "politician" face.

"Good afternoon, my good friend. What can the President of Russia do for you today?"

"It is not what you can do for me, but what you can do for yourself."

That voice had an icy chill to it, the cold tone you expected to hear while reading _Mein Kampf_, a logic that was bourn in and borne out of Hell on Satan's back- but Grigor's tone didn't waver

"Why, my friend, whatever do you mean?"

"I mean that little commanding whore you work for. I mean her brother who looks like he should be in a punk band. I mean how you are stuck reporting to them, enslaved to their whim, how you have to get on one knee when you come into Kim's throne room- and how you get stuck wiping her spittle when she naps unexpectedly, just like you cleaned the stable."

Grigor's breath caught in his throat. The shame immolated his skin, the fire spreading with every second. His shoes had suddenly become the most interesting thing on the planet, and the back of his head had a lead weight on it. The clutching despair gripped his heart, allowing the man to speak again.

"Your whole life, you have hovered near importance. Near wealth. Near power. Always, you have been unjustly denied. Your noble bloodline was stamped out. Your chance to lead the Communists was felled by their own incompetence. Your telecommunications company went bankrupt when GJ withdrew their defense contract… which lead you to the CVB- an organization with a fragile plan, which you are now posed to disturb. The world is now in shambles. You can claim your place as savior- and Tsar- of all the world on top of the pile of corpses you helped create. Who would resist? The U.S.? No, their plan is already in effect after the twin attacks on Peach Creek and New York City. They have retreated from New England and are praying for God to grant mercy. Would it be the E.U.? No, they have already yielded to the newly founded Islamic Nation- the ex-Arab League- and the Islamists are under the CVB's control. All that's left is for you to clear the field of the battered remnants of GJ and the CVB- both having roughly ten thousand members worldwide."

Grigor left, a hammer taken to his soul. The Duma was the last thing on his mind. In his head, he was still in that stable, having the brine poured on him to take off the horse crap.

Behind him the old man smirked and walked away, his subdermal transceiver telling him to answer. Vengeance would be his.


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, here goes. As you may or may not have noticed, a fairly significant rewrite- some plot, some technical things- has been done, and you'll want to at least reread the first and fourth chapters of the story, some significant thematic changes have been made.

I keep changing the plan, due to plot bunnies, but, here it goes!

_

* * *

_

_Saint Petersburg, 2036_

The "old man" climbed in the van that was waiting for him out the back of the Winter Palace, a van lined with red and with a fairly telling symbol on the back wall: the Global Justice logo. He ripped off his disguise, and stood there in his gleaming and pristine black GJ uniform.

After the destruction of HQ and the death of Betty Director in prison, the new director- Will Du- had ordered everyone black uniforms with the red GJ logo as a memorial to those who'd died.

Will Du, the man stepping out of the disguise, wished his body had fared the years since the destruction of HQ as well as his uniform. Every wound was a story. His prematurely greying hair was the first, chronologically, but right now, the least on his mind.

_

* * *

_

_Charleston 2033_

The greying hair had come when he'd first sat down in GJ's backup HQ in Charleston, South Carolina. GJ had chosen that city for several reasons: Number one, it's on a peninsula, and highly defensible in case of siege. And two, Fort Jackson, the Myrtle Beach Air Force Base- newly reactivated after the CVB attack on New York City in 2032- and the Charleston Naval Center put all of the branches of the armed forces within an hour's drive. He was sitting down, and opened the desk drawers, looking for Dr. Director's list of passwords, profiles, and intel.

In the top drawer, he found hair dye, matching Dr. Director's hair color exactly. At first he laughed that off. Then he opened the bottom drawer of her desk. He saw a tiny sheet of paper, that read "List of Codes," with building, room, and door codes to locate it. He wondered if that was all there was. Out of curiosity, he tracked down the first number- which read "PRSNL-1"

He went underground, the first level, and when the elevator door opened, he entered the listed code. He emerged into a brightly lit, wall-to-wall, series of filing cabinets. They were up against the walls, five deep, and the room could've held a football field. He looked in one filing cabinet, and realized: This entire vault was one month's personnel reports that Dr. Director had to have handled personally.

The Library of Congress wishes it had the morass of paperwork that GJ's vaults held. The personnel reports alone occupied Giant's stadium, and the Intel could've filled the whole bowl that New Orleans rested in- if everything past one year wasn't filed on Blu-Ray disk. Even on that high-capacity format, everything still filled a room the size of a football field.

He was responsible for dishing out a group of paperwork the size of the Library of Congress's whole archive each day. Most of it was automatic, but he still had to manage some aspects, like the personnel reports, or approval to distribute top secret intel to whichever agent needed it. His hair began graying almost immediately. Doctors estimated his hair would be white by the time he hit forty, if he lived that long. There was a reason Global Justice never had any old directors.

The next wound he received was his eyepatch. He had been working later than usual- it was four A.M.- and was about to pull out his sleeping bag and get an hour of sleep before work, when he'd heard a noise, just a slight hiss of burning wire. Will made sure he had his bulletproof vest on and his gun with him. He headed up to the main hall, where he heard the sound coming from. The quarter mile long hall- he saw a cat burglar, dressed in dark, dark green, and black, fleeing the scene. He pulled out his Beretta, and closed his right eye to aim. As he was about to pull the trigger, a dark, demonically black-green spike hit him right in the eye.

Will Du lay there bleeding, and as he was recovering in the hospital room, he discovered that the operative- the camera had caught her face and clothes- was Jenine Standard, of the CVB. And he could never use his left eye again. If he'd had both eyes open, he'd be blind. They'd stolen only one thing: GJ intel on Islamic Nation nukes.

After Beijing, he realized why they'd done that. But by that time, his hatred of GJ was as white-hot as it would ever get, because of his final wound, the reason he didn't need to wear a cup anymore, and why he wasn't married.

* * *

_Hawaii, 2035_

The theft and the assumption of control were a few years in the past for him. The GJ crew had told him there was an urgent mission, and he was needed on-site, immediately.

He got in the airplane, and eventually parachuted down onto Oahu.

He had a welcoming committee waiting for him, who stripped his uniform off, and gave him a complimentary Hawaiian shirt, and loose khaki shorts. They body-surfed him up the stairs of the hotel, and into his penthouse suite. The soldiers had used all their collective savings to book him the whole hotel and it's activities. This whole 'island', for the week, was dedicated to pleasing him. He at first resisted. But he had a drink or two in the hotel's nicest bar on the first night, and then he saw her. Blonde, toned muscles and tanned skin, and hazel eyes that showed there was more to her than looks. Although the look he was getting was pleasant.

He went over there, and asked, "Is this seat taken?"

"Who wants to know?"

Her subtle grin told Will she was interested.

"Just a guy who can see you're easy on the eyes."

"Well, I guess I can't refuse someone that nice, whoever he is."

He laughed and sat down on the other side of her. He started off the conversation.

"So, what's your job?"

"I'm a stockbroker/stock consultant, I work from home."

"Really?"

"I'm impressed that you didn't sneer. People always sneer when they hear that part. The sneer gets wiped off, however, when they discover that the directors of Walmart, Home Depot, and Lowes entrust me with handling their stock investments. They ran me through a yearlong simulation. With no warning and a simulated total collapse of the world economy, I was able to save fifty percent of their money. The best anyone else was able to do was five."

"Wow."

"They then decided to let me manage their investments in hardware, software, and other technologies. Every time, I made a good call. Those companies would've been annihilated in the bombing of New York if it hadn't been for me."

"And now they're virtually the ONLY companies. Wow."

She was obviously a very, very smart woman. She could match wits with him, she was interested in him, and she was attractive. In short, guys would fall over each other begging for a chance with her. And she was not afraid to take the initiative.

"I can cook better than these hotel morons. Want to come back to my room and taste it for yourself?"

So for supper, they went back to her room. She wasn't lying. She was a world class chef. The risotto was delicious, and the mozzarella burrito (with marinara) was an awesome side-dish. But the odd combination prompted him to ask, "Who taught you to cook?"

"My dad. He was the only one who could ever teach me to cook a dish. I haven't been able to learn from anyone else since he passed away."

"I'm sorry. I've lost someone too. She wasn't my mother, but for all she did for me, despite her workload, she definitely earned the title. She did one act of compassion too many and that's what killed her. And to think criminals like the CVB are still breathing while she passed away."

"The same thing happened with my father. He saved lives for a living, and it was his profession that stressed him to death."

"So we have something in common- we both have parents who were noble people and their nobility killed them. Thank God. You're the first person I have ever met who can possibly comprehend the frustration that you can't do anything to help them, the anger at what killed them, and the grief that you'll never see them again."

They hugged, and a more powerful friendship- one could even say love- couldn't have been formed. They slept in the same bed, cradling each other, drained by spilling out their souls, but nothing physical happened. Just two souls finding their opposite halves.

Over the next week, they shared cute moments- wiping pizza sauce off each other's lips, personal moments- Will Du revealed his masochistic tendency, and Melody revealed her painkiller addiction- and funny moments- dunking the hotel owner in the slime tank, for one.

On the next to last day he was scheduled to be there, he bought an engagement ring, with six month's salary- a gold band with a single diamond, he couldn't afford any more. He was going to marry this woman- she was one of a kind. That night, he said he had a surprise for her in the morning.

At midnight exactly, she had a knife. She couldn't do it. She couldn't kill him. Despite her constant comparisons of every man to her father- Will and every other man fell short in that department- she had found something unique in him: she had found compassion in him. But he was Global Justice, he was the enemy. So she did the next best thing. She walked away with his manhood.

He was awoken by a sharp pain and a note.

_Dear Will_

_My orders were to kill you- I couldn't kill such a compassionate man, such a common soul. I might, given time, have even married you. But you work for GJ. That's a shutdown in my book. If you don't bleed to death, you should survive. But do you want to?_

_Love,_

_Melody Stoppable_

His screams brought in the hotel staff. He barely noticed the pain in his groin for the pain in his heart.

For the next month he was in the hospital on suicide watch. After that, no one forced him to take a vacation ever again. He never took another day off. Weekends were normal days, he never went home. He only slept when he had to. Sleeping brought dreams- nightmares because they involved her. He carried the ring he'd bought with him, so that when she was buried, he could put it into the coffin with her. He couldn't rest until CVB were all hanged- and she was out of his mind at last.


	7. Chapter 7

In this chapter, the story EARNS its M rating. I wrote the marked part in a caffeine rage. Don't look if you have a weak stomach.

* * *

_Liberty Island, 2036_

Meanwhile, on Liberty Island, Melody was asleep at her desk. This was not unusual, insofar as sleeping at one's desk goes, as she does so frequently. What was abnormal was the pool of tears that had collected, and was threatening to wet the papers she had fallen asleep working on.

Melody was awoken by a ring at the doorbell. Her only thought was to curse how obvious the tears were. She replied to the impetus, "Give me a minute to freshen up." She splashed water in her eyes, and brushed her hair so as to look presentable. She stowed the papers and put on her façade of strength.

She opened the door.

Svetlana's face poked back out at her.

"It's almost time to start the Rome operation. We need you on-site for a few things, management, finances, site inspection, etcetera."

"I understand. Is the airplane ready?"

"Yes, it's waiting for us on the landing pad."

Melody saw a twinkle in Svetlana's eyes. She said nothing, but tensed up subtly. Svetlana cut it out when she saw, which made Melody tense up more. Svetlana rolled her eyes as they got into an airplane.

Her tension lasted on the airplane. She had her own personal armored car, one that cost 20 million, but was virtually invulnerable against explosions - it took airplane munitions to pierce the car- bullets – the whole U.S. Army could fire at her car and not make a dent- and shelling- the Israeli projectile disabling system had become available on the black market. She was trained in driving armored cars, driving defensively, driving offensively, driving while drunk, and even driving while underwater. She was comfortable in a car. An airplane? Nothing you could fix in midair, nothing you could do in case of a crash. Nothing to prevent someone else shooting you down.

Yes, she was paranoid, she acknowledged that much, but that didn't mean there was no one out to get her.

* * *

_Colorado, 2028_

Her paranoia didn't used to be as sharp. She was in college for her bachelor's in chemical engineering, at the Colorado School of Mines, meaning she could also visit her hometown, Middleton, and reminisce about the good times with her father. She saw a man and fell head over heels at once. Brown hair, tanned skin, and more buff than it would take to get a hundred dings out of a car.

He was an easygoing sort of man, always had a joke. He wasn't prone to any vices, and he was more than willing to let her take the lead. In short, except for the looks, he was almost a copy of her father's "Ron" personality. His name was Eiríkr. Apparently, his family was old, very, very old, and Norwegian, very, very Norwegian. They moved because of the moves the kingdom had been making toward an Islamic Monarchy.

Melody was, as has been said before, a paranoid woman, even then. So she snuck (broke) into his apartment in the middle of the night, and nicked his finger. She mailed the blood off to be tested against the CVB database of personnel working for the enemy, or at least untrustworthy personnel. Meaning, GJ agents or criminals they didn't have under their thumb.

He checked out clean.

He was then checked against all of the normal databases, social security and social programs- God bless socialism- and there was where the disturbing part came. No Eiríkr Anderssen ever officially existed, not with his birth date, or one close to it, not in Norway or anywhere else. Along all of the search algorithms, compensating for translations and possible traditional naming. Still nothing.

That, to say the least, did not happen every day.

She confronted him about it- Glock, with the safety off in hand, of course.

"Hey, I got a question- what was your background like?"

"Tough. My parents were honest, agrarian people. They did their best to farm what they could in southern Norway. What we couldn't farm, Father fished and hunted. We were always worried about scurvy, and we never paid taxes. We never had money, never saw Julenisse (Norwegian Santa), and never bought anything. My mother went into town, worked under the table, and used all the money to buy our family books. She taught herself, and then taught us. I was good enough to get a scholarship to an American university. My greatest dream is to earn enough to get them into the city, at least, and let them retire."

She understood. It was a fairly rare situation, but understandable. Miracles did occasionally occur. She sent an agent to check out his story- there was a family, Anderssens, old and no money, in coastal southern Norway. There was a standardized test recorded in the early 2010's, under his name, and his registration was filed with this university just a little while ago.

So the dating continued, until one day, when she was about to reveal the truth to him and ask him to join her in the organization. They had agreed to cohabitate a few months back. It was the middle of the night. God bless obsessive training. Melody was groggy until she saw her boyfriend's chest blinking. She rolled out of bed, and double checked. He had a bomb, in his chest, somehow. All she knew was she had to get out, fast. She went to the balcony- third story window, had to jump- there was a perfectly positioned car. She jumped, perfect freefall posture- spread out- and then was about to maneuver to impact position when the bomb went off. The shockwave hit her, stunned her long enough for the bomb to let her smack into the car. Luckily her knees hit the sunroof, which happened to be open. She went straight through- her knees popped free of their ligaments at this point- her face clipped the edge, tore her nose free, and cut her head wide open on the rebound. But she was alive. She was conscious through the pain.

Thanks to her martial arts training, she knew how to handle certain levels of pain, and could stay thinking through more than most people. She was conscious enough to slap her "CVB-911" button, and pull out her first aid kit. The kit held two things she'd never used before- first, some morphine as a painkiller for her most serious injuries. She slammed the needle into her thigh. She injected the liquid and the pain cleared just enough for her to bind the most serious wounds- gauze tied across her nose, and a splint- of the car's arms and twine- for her knees, and then the second thing she'd never used before- a tranquilizer. She finally allowed herself to lapse into unconsciousness.

* * *

_2028, Subterranean bunker outside of Montreal. _

By the time she awoke a week later- they had to keep her under the whole week it would take for her to recover from the knee surgery because the doctors knew Melody would insist on getting back up and back to work the second she woke up. Sure enough, she climbed out of bed, used the cane beside her bed, and insisted on getting back to work. The CVB doctor sighed and handed her the morphine prescription. Melody took her first dose before looking at the forensic report.

It turned out that GJ had perfected the art of the synthodrone. This version had similar resistance to human flesh at the surface- but had core armor- and had self-healing surfaces that cut off the flow, rather than a nick killing a drone. Also, they'd learned to make red goo that held DNA. She should've known.

Eiríkr was Norwegian for Erik.

* * *

_2036, Rome_

After that day, she trained all the more obsessively, simply slamming down the needle for her morphine whenever her knees acted up.

She never went anywhere without her glowing red sword. She never went anywhere without her pistol. She never went anywhere without a couple of electronic bugs. And most of all, she never trusted anyone ever again. She would never be attacked, would never be surprised again.

She did, however, undergo five years of reconstructive surgery. She had no illusions of vanity; she merely recognized the value of seduction as a weapon.

The airplane had finally landed; they got to Rome, and Melody used executive privilege to peel off and take a bath. A nice, long, hot, normally relaxing bath. But these reminders of the old ghosts got all of the spirits that haunted her up and running. The most powerful one was her father's shade.

Her life was her father. When she was young, she had wanted to enter GJ just like him. When she was 12, her father went insane. She understood instantly. Her father held no fault. The fault was on the shoulders of GJ for working her father too hard, driving him crazy. Her father was a strong man.

But he was not God.

Melody was her father. She, like all the Stoppable children, had inherited his Monkey Kung Fu Skills, and Mystical Monkey Power. She had not inherited, but had learned, to cook and play piano from him.

She still remembered her father's big, warm hands on hers, directing her to just move her fingers a little, to reach the right keys. To this day, she could still play, even though she never practiced.

Her father never scolded her, never spoke a harsh word, never got angry at her. He always corrected her gently, and she always learned from her mistakes. Whenever she messed up seriously, Kim would get involved.

In an indirect way, she even inherited her hatred of human trafficking from her father.

Just then, she realized her bath water was getting cold.

She got out and got dressed.

Svetlana had scheduled her for a personal tour of all of Rome. She took in the sights, managed to forget about her troubles until she walked by an old roman slave market. It brought back old memories, memories best left quashed, about the time she came within a hair's breadth of slavery herself.

* * *

_2020, Yamanuchi School_

Fukushima and Hirotaka captured them and her father. Her father came in looking simultaneously like an avenging angel, and a demon, the arch-demon. Demonic enough to where, if Satan himself had been there, Satan would've been his bitch. There is no politer way to put it.

Then, for five days, he withstood torture to give them time to escape. When he finally broke, he didn't break down. He lashed out. He ripped out Hirotaka's throat with his teeth. Lashed out like an animal, against someone worse than Satan, worse than evil itself. The slave ring died with him; Fukushima, his partner, didn't have the brains God gave lava.

Melody would take similarly animalistic steps to stop human trafficking.

_**(THIS IS THE BAD PART. SCROLL DOWN TILL YOU SEE SIMILAR MARKINGS.)**_

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* * *

_**

_2033, Yonkers_

_Melody had caught them just outside of Yonkers, three slavers, with a full cargo. She sent a caravan for the slaves in CVB's Recovering Slave Wing, a lavish hospital that was worth millions per year. She had medical technicians and camera technicians on hand for the slavers. She took them to a specially prepared bunker, no windows for the stars to give them away. She would videotape their every torture. _

_First thing she did was have them crucified. The nails were clean, as was the wood. Their wounds were cauterized, and they would be fed and watered well. They wished it had stopped there and they had died with that._

_She teased their penises into erect positions. Then she took a long cleaver, and carefully stripped all of the skin off, taking no flesh yet. She took her time, and carefully peeled off the muscle, and then, when she got it down to the tube, yanked it out of the body._

_Then that wound was cauterized. The remains were then stuck up their behinds. She then carefully prepared a bladed drill- as it spun, it shredded whatever it touched. She then proceeded to, in turn, shove it up all of their behinds, until it came out the front._

_The rest of the process she didn't bother to try to cauterize. They died somewhere between the arse-peeling and the third layer of muscle being shaved off their torsos._

_**END OF NASTY PART. SORRY I HAD TO DO THAT.**_

**_

* * *

_**

_2036, Rome_

She nearly vomited at the memory. Anyone else shown the tape passed out. Never, ever torture in a fit of rage. It will leave you with nightmares. But in her mind, they deserved still worse.

And trafficking had dropped ninety percent since it was posted online.

She removed the syringe from her pocket, and slammed it down. She went back immediately, took her tranquilizers, and cried until they stole her consciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

Nightmares. Ghosts of a fantasy gone wrong. The past reliving itself in the dead of night, where no man can defend against it. As was usual, blood was in his dreams. He cut his arm in a nice diamond pattern, admiring his work, admiring the amount of blood, and admiring the pain. In his dream, however, someone opened the door. His training took over and he stabbed without looking.

He'd stabbed his pregnant wife, right in the stomach.

He woke up, in a cold sweat. He stormed off to the bathroom but couldn't make it. He vomited right in the hallway. He wasn't married yet, but he was a killer. These nightmares were virtually inescapable, especially on nights like this when his future was called into question. He couldn't tell Jax about his dreams, or his habits. He was too ashamed. He was hooked on death, on danger, but he couldn't stand the thought of putting his family in it.

He followed standard procedure. He wiped himself off with a towel, scooped up the vomit and scrubbed the carpet, and disposed of the vomit by putting it in the bottom of the trash bag. Then he got a Snickers bar and then waited for his fiancée to get up.

As he sat, he thought. He hadn't always been like this. He was the second child of Kim and Ron's, right after Melody. He had originally been a mixture of Ron and Kim- he had his father's easygoing personality and slacking, and compassion, but he had his mother's passion for thrills. So he'd go rock climbing- his pants would fall off and he'd spend a week in the hospital. He was the one who convinced his father to try ghost riding.

* * *

_2019, Middleton, Colorado_

"Son, are you sure about this?"

"Yeah, dad, done it a thousand times with my older friends."

"Okay, if you say so."

They revved the cars up to 35 miles an hour. Ron Sr. flipped onto the hood with all his ninja skills and training. Ron Jr. pulled himself up like the clumsy youngster he was.

They both started to bust some badass dance moves when a car came barreling through the intersection, skidding and hitting both cars. Ron Jr. was knocked off, but Ron Sr. glowed blue, somersaulted into the air, caught Ron Jr. and landed perfectly, without harm to either of them. They both stood up.

Then both their pants fell down.

Then, simultaneously:

"Aw, man!"

Ron Jr. still smiled at the memory. He remembered how big, warm, soft, and safe his father's arms felt that day.

* * *

But then his father had been killed. Put down like a dog. And so, Ron Jr. turned to the other side of his father's personality, one he had never even known of: Vasilli Boiarskii lived on in him. He focused on sniping. He gained the passion studying the different weapons. There was something to killing an enemy as he was at leisure, when he never even knew you even existed.

* * *

_2026, Middle East_

He joined the Marine Corps Detachment One, the newly formed Marine Corps Special Forces, which command had raised to a nice round 100 men. He was stuck in the Middle East with the whole of the rest of the Detatchment, defending a pass over the Euphrates with one day's worth of supplies against an army of ten thousand pissed off Persians.

They stayed out there for a full month, drinking purified river water, and eating nearly raw camel meat. The only reason it wasn't longer was because the Persians gave up, and withdrew. The Detachment took out a full thousand men. Ron had 30 of his 50 "confirmed" kills come from there. Unofficially, his body count there was well over sixty. It was a part of the final US withdrawal from Iraq.

The rest of the time he was out there, he covered US retreats from the region, as the Islamic Nation started to cement itself, and he covered US defenses of Israel. Operation: Defend the Star was the source of ten of his other confirmed kills, and twenty of his personal ones. It lasted for two years- he was mostly on patrol, but he couldn't resist taking a potshot every now and again. When the I.N. finally gave up and realized that the US would defend Israel to any cost, the Detachment was moved to eastern Europe, to seek and destroy the Russians who were violating the laws against bestiality.

Not really their mission, but that's what it seemed like at the time. That was roughly three years of his service, and he had six years of service in all, fifty confirmed kills, one hundred personally logged.

Then he became more active in the CVB, and his body count rose considerably. His rebellious youth, and passion for hacking, motorcycles, music, and women came in handy during his stealth missions.

Women, until one mission went awry, and led him down the course toward bondage for life.

* * *

_2036, New Delhi, India_

It was several months before the Beijing attack. Their man had done exceedingly well- too well. He was officially a bodyguard. He had been transferred to the Chinese embassy in India, too far away for the attack. He was there for the celebratory party.

Fulfilling an ancient Buddhist prophecy, the Chairman of the Communist Party of China had sent an elephant to circulate throughout the new "second world" of Chinese influence- all of southeast Asia, save for Japan.

The challenge was this: The elephant had a casket on its back, made of pure gold, and filled with pure gold. Whoever could recite just one stanza of Buddha's teachings would win the elephant, casket, and gold. None of the four or five billion in that sphere could do it. The Chinese celebrated the "destruction of ignorance" within their domain.

He had to fail, but not obviously, and not looking complicit. Just enough failure to get him transferred back to Beijing in disgrace. Hence his charge had to be killed before the banquet. Hence Ron Jr.'s entrance into the situation. He got himself hired for a gig in a club near the embassy. Right after Ron finished playing, the embassy would start receiving guests for the big bash. At that point, where it would be some news, but not too highly publicized, and would be the perfect point to assassinate Sheng's charge, some bigwig from the Indian State department.

Ron finished rocking out the show and headed out of the town, used his nightvision to doublecheck that he wasn't being followed, and headed to a hill outside of town. The western fifth floor windows were perfectly visible from this particular vantage point. Plenty of brush, so his gillie suit could hide him. He waited there for about two hours until a disaster almost happened.

* * *

Inside the embassy, Jax began HER role. As an attractive, unscarred, untattooed young female, she was the best at infiltration of any nation's companies, except the still-feminist United States. She had put on her makeup, her black dress, v-cut neck, made of satin, the color and luster of black diamonds. The bottom hem had a suggestive cut just so. Just long enough to be formal, while still short enough to be sexy. 

Her stiletto heels sounded down the hall. That poor sap would never know what hit him.

She entered the elevator, rode the plain- if clean- metal device to the fifth floor, and went down the center hall, where the offices were.

She entered the office of Sheng's charge. The first hint they had she was there was the click of the door closing shut, and her leaning against it. She said, "I'm here to see an ambassador. I had a question about his role at the party tonight. But I don't see an ambassador here- I see two athletes in suits."

The ambassador chuckled. He was forty, so he wasn't too old for such flattery, but he was on the edge. He responded.

"I assume you are the… charming young woman I had requested the presence of at the party?"

He'd called an escort service. She had intercepted and knocked out the woman that was being sent. She felt a twinge of guilt at hiding her unconscious body. The thrill of the hunt combined with guilt at hurting other people. She found it growing each day, each time she hurt other people.

"Yes."

She wandered around the room, nonchalantly making her way to the window. In under thirty seconds, she'd spotted the CVB sniper in the brush. She called over to her "date"

"My, my, look at this view!"

* * *

Meanwhile Ron was starstruck. He couldn't believe it- no, it was impossible. No one could be that gorgeous. Even though the sniper scope's crosshair obscured part of his view, he could see what he needed to see. He had passed her in the halls occasionally, who hadn't? But he had never taken the time to talk to her. Only now did he realize his mistake. 

And he saw that he'd waited too long. He saw the man through the scope- and the man looked right back at him. The man reeled in shock and horror, dipping down behind the desk. Jax dropped all fakery and Jujitsu locked the guy on the office floor. She knocked him out with her flames- she couldn't afford to leave bruises. Ron Jr took out his rappelling equipment. He'd hoped not to have to use it. But Melody had planned for just such a contingency.

"_What if he shines a flashlight out the window and the gleam hits the barrel of your gun?"_

"_That's crazy, sis, he'll never know I'm there."_

"_You're taking the rappelling gear, and that's final."_

In retrospect, sometimes his sister's paranoia came in handy.

He made his way up, and his training took over.

"What's the sitch?"

"We have a moron here who couldn't take the shot when he needed to, for whatever reason, and we have a living emissary here who needs to be killed by a 30.06."

"Got it. Stand back."

She quickly moved to behind him.

"When I leave, move the body so it looks like he fell back from the window."

She nodded as a wave of nausea rolled over her at the thought of having to touch a dead body. But she did put on gloves, as not to leave fingerprints.

Ron took the shot, and made sure to break the window as he rappelled to the side of the building. It was dark enough so that he wouldn't be noticed- as long as his arms didn't get tired.

* * *

It was five hours later when he could finally get down- he couldn't move his arms, he had to jump with his legs and rappel down slowly, bit by bit. 

The original plan was for 2 different extractions, but the delay caused by the gunshot investigation forced them to take the same helicopter extraction on the head of town out.

They were initially so tired, all they could do was sleep. They got into the helicopter, and their heads rested on each other's shoulders.

When they woke up, they blushed, and yammered off justifications. After the required half-hour of awkward avoiding each other's gazes, they began to talk.

"So, not to pry, but what made you miss the shot?"

"You."

"WHAT?"

"Sorry, I guess I need to explain. I saw you. At that point, my brain stopped. My mind refused to accept that you were possible."

"In a positive or a negative fashion?"

"Entirely positive."

"I'm flattered."

"I am a musician, you know. Want to come to one of my concerts? I can get you in backstage, get you all the perks, and, after the concert, we can get some supper, see a movie, or just hang out."

"That depends. What kind of music do you play?"

"We alternate between classic rock, post-grunge, and heavy metal. It really depends on where we're booked and what we feel like that night."

"In that case, sure. I'd love to."

"So, tell me more about yourself. Let's start with your name, if you don't mind."

She laughed.

"I'm Jenine Standard, but, if you ever actually say Jenine, I will kill you. Call me Jax."

"I'm Ronald Dean Stoppable Junior. But all the women I know call me Ronnie. After looking at me, the men I meet usually just call me Sir."

"Really? What's your rank in the CVB?"

"Colonel. But I never use it, except to get one of the guys to get me a beer."

"You drink?"

"Only when hanging out with the guys, or after a particularly tough mission. Most of the time, I stick to water."

Just then Jax noticed a dripping on the floor.

"Are you bleeding?"

"Not much, just cut my arm on a nail sticking out the side of the window."

Bullshit. That building was brick, smooth brick, with no balconies. She didn't need to know that he enjoyed cutting. Since, his greatest nightmare was the pure shame of her finding out. Would she dump him? Would she institutionalize him?

There were only two people in existence who knew about his habit: Ron and Jesus. And Jesus didn't want to tell anyone on Earth about it.

They continued chatting, and discovered they were both from apostate Catholic families. They had great fun debating whether or not God actually existed, and what His nature was. They agreed on some key emergency things. Over the next year or so, they had a positive influence on each other. Ron had started to tone down on his wildness, started to plan at least what he was going to have for lunch, and she had become a little more dangerous, a little more spontaneous. But they both still resisted hurting people and stopping a bad habit, respectively.

Neither of which they told the other.

* * *

But over the next few months, they'd continued to get to know each other. He learned about her power to affect the outcome of dice rolls, with minor telekinesis, and her gambling habit. She didn't call it a problem, because, "It's not a problem 'till I start losing." 

They fell in love, primarily because she had always been looking for someone who was mentally strong enough to protect her, like her father growing up, and he was looking for someone who cared about him, like his mother did until his dad died.

Her bigger brother, Jaques, Jak his nickname, didn't approve. He was the tech-man for the CVB. Whenever the hardware broke, he was the only one who could fix it. He often teamed up with Ron for the software part, meaning they knew each other. But he still didn't take too kindly to Ron and Jax- his little sister- getting into a relationship without his approval.

After the combined threat of a sniper's slug and plasma ray, he finally shut up, after finishing with, in his carefully cultivated faux-French accent, "Stupid American."

* * *

_Liberty Island, 2036_

Then one evening, Ron couldn't stand it any longer. He was about to ship out for the Paris operation. He had to do it now. He went to the CVB lawyer-on-hand, Professor Icke. Most people just called him Prick. The professor was fine with that; his fellows in his profession had spawned a lot of bad karma, which he was doing his best to repay. He worked for the CVB at-cost, meaning all he asked was room, board, and enough to cover his legal expenses. He hadn't a penny to his name, and he was fine with that.

"So, Prick, there's something I need to do, right now."  
"What is it?"

"I want to write a will."

"Okay, I'll need to call my assistant in. We need two witnesses. You need to be the one to write the first few sentences, and make the decisions, but I can help you avoid the pitfalls that most people fall into. You'll need to start with-"

"I, Ronald Dean Stoppable Jr., being of sound mind and body, declare that my last will and testament are as follows:"

"That's right."

* * *

He left with the will in his hand, and, before leaving, he'd sealed another thing in the envelope. 

He knocked on the door, and gave the package to Jax.

"I'll be in my room for the next four hours, if you can respond by then, I'd greatly appreciate it. I just can't do this to your face."

She opened the letter. She read it, and was shocked and honored at the same time that he would leave everything to her. Then she saw one sentence at the end of the will

…_This will is made in consideration of a possible pending marriage._

That's when she felt the other part. A diamond ring. She sat there, understanding but unable to believe it.

She started debating it in her head.

* * *

Ron knew after the first half hour what her response would be. He sighed and decided to board early.

* * *

After a half an hour, Jax came to a sudden realization. She loved him, and he loved her. What else mattered? 

She rushed to his room, but he was nowhere to be found. She rang the CVB Directory.

"Hello, where is Ron Jr?"

"He is in the boarding room, waiting to board his flight."

She dropped the phone, halfway down the dormitory hall before the receptionist finished the word "room."

She didn't know if Olympian speed would be enough to catch him.

For the first time in a long time, prayer came off her lips.

* * *

Something made Ron Jr. stop and turn around. He'd miss her. He wished she would've said yes. He- what was that green thunderbolt? 

He hit the dirt. Ron and Jax were both on the ground, their chests were heaving, their faces touching.

"Yes" was all she said.

They didn't even wait until they were off the ramp.


	9. Chapter 9

_Liberty Island, 2036_

Ron sighed. He wasn't usually one to sigh upon being given the order to kill, but he had just come back from the most stressful damn mission anyone could imagine- toppling the military power structure of a country whose warrior culture was old when Moses was in diapers.

He was looking forward to awkwardly trying to explain to Jax that he didn't care what shade the fringes on the polka-dotted pink lace were. That all that mattered was having him, her, Kim and Shego there, and having a preacher to marry Jax and him.

He didn't know why they were bothering with a wedding. They were agnostics, for God's sake. He just had a strong urge to bind him and her- to be able to share one name, one home, one soul. To be one as was impossible without being married.

Okay, he couldn't really claim to be agnostic. He knew God was out there, how else could he explain Jax and him meeting, let alone her loving him? He just didn't know how he could forgive himself for the things he's done.

It was really hard finding a preacher. Jax and Ron searched all over New York for one who hadn't abandoned his faith. Preachers were going apostate right and left. Priests were leaving their collars in the road. Buddhists were leaving their robes in the temples, and going into the cities.

Imams and Rabbis were the only ones who held their faith nowadays.

Ron stopped thinking and boarded the plane, survival kit, sword, and rifle all in place

* * *

_Aeroporto dell'Urbe, Rome, 2036_

Ron came off the plane, and into Rome. He barely had time to hear footsteps, whip his head around, and see a green blur before it hit him in the jaw.

* * *

_Rome, 2036_

When he came to, his vision was blurry. He felt very pinched in his groin and armpits, and he felt someone's left arm locked with his right. His vision cleared slightly and he saw he was inside a white building, with an alley and rows of seating. He realized, slowly, where he was.

"Jax. Next time, tell me before you drag me into our wedding."

"You have no idea how hard it was to find a church that wasn't Catholic in Rome."

"What church is this?"

"The All Saint's Church. It's Anglican. Not ideal, but it'll do."

"Okay. Let's get this show on the road."

Someone tapped Grigor on the shoulder- he was standing outside the chapel door, standing guard. He wasn't comfortable in churches.

"I have important news for you. Come outside."

They proceeded out the door of the chapel.

It was a middle-aged man in a uniform.

"You may not believe this, but it needs to be said. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes. Your wife and son-"

"-Are long dead after being taken from me by the Mafia, and not relevant to any news you may have."  
"No. They were alive."  
"Were?"

"Your son is dead and your wife is dying."  
"What? How could they have survived the drive by? Impossible."  
"The region had a horrible coroner- he had several other notable cases of mistakenly declaring someone dead- they were in a backwoods hospital that was overstressed and undermanned. They also, for many, many years, had amnesia. They had only recovered recently and were scraping together the funds for a trip to the city. After the banning of meat, they had no way to get vitamin C, iron or protein. Orange trees don't grow in Russia's backwoods, neither do health supplement stores."

"No."

The thought that he had killed his wife, that he had been the one to wield the knife that slew her and his son was too much to bear. The weight of sadness that bore down on him was too much. He couldn't express it, couldn't feel it, couldn't even breathe. He wished he was back in that stable. He had learned to endure, to thrive in physical pain. However, this, this part of him that had resurfaced after ten thousand lifetimes, was too much to bear. Losing them was what lead him to become a true alcoholic, and to truly forget what type of man he'd been with them at his side.

"Now."

"What?"

"Take me to them, NOW!"

Grigor's man had come in a black market renovated SR-71 Blackbird, the engines updated, the whole plane upgraded so the damn thing could go Mach 5.

A speed surpassed only by the US'S Aurora Bomber.

It was fast. Would it be fast enough?

* * *

_ Inside the Church, Rome, 2036_

After taking the time to get Ron Jr. up to speed, and awake, and reoriented- and, more to the point, calm- the minister started the ceremony.

"We are gathered here today to bind these two in holy matrimony. God gave marriage to mankind for reasons that these two exemplify. To take the man- hot tempered, loyal to a fault, and bind him to the woman- calm, and needing someone to rely on. This is not discrimination; they have come to me individually and told me as much about themselves. If there is one among you who can give a reason why these two should not be lawfully wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."

* * *

_Backwoods Russia, 2036_

Grigor leapt out of the plane at that same time around the world. He was not a healthy man. He had a hangover now that threatened to rip his head apart. His contacts had fallen out, so he couldn't see more than 5 feet ahead. His lumbago made it painful to move if he was hunched over as he was now, to cut the drag. He last ran when he left the army, decades ago. There wasn't a part of him that was not sweating and hurting.

He didn't give a flying fuck about any of that. All that mattered now, all that existed, all that could possibly ever exist was his wife. Hell could try to take him now, and Satan would end up with a bruising, nothing but nothing could stop him from getting there.

He saw the door coming up into the cottage his wife was being kept in because she was too poor to afford a medivac to a hospital. He saw the door. To open the door would slow him down. Bye-bye door.

His shoulder rammed the door.

The door splintered under the force of the blow. 150 plus pounds moving at maximum speed is a hell of a lot of damage.

* * *

_All Saint's Chapel, Rome, 2036_

"Ronald Stoppable Junior. Do you swear to love, honor, cherish, obey, and love no other than Jenine Standard as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"Jenine Standard. Do you swear to love, honor, cherish, and obey none other than Ron Stoppable as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

* * *

_Backwoods Russia, 2036_

"My wife, my love, my soul, are you alive?"

Grigor heard a weak murmur. He pressed his head to her throat.

"Yes."

"Forgive me, I had thought you dead after the Mafia kidnapped you and Alexi. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Food."

He sent the envoy to search the woods for some game. In the mean time, he pulled out the survival pack from the airplane.

"My darling, here is the best I can do for the moment. If God allows, fresh meat will be here soon. A vitamin and some pemmican are all I can do for now."

He saw her unable to chew, and said, "Let me help you."

Grigor got the crowbar from the survival pack, and used it to cut up and smash the tablets and pemmican into an easily edible form.

She managed to swallow it this time.

* * *

_All Saint's Church, Rome, 2036_

The minister continued, "Do you, Ron Stoppable, promise to take Jenine to have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"

Ron turned to Jax

"I promise to take you, Jax, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, in health, to love and to cherish until death do us part."

"Do you, Jenine, promise to take Ron Stoppable, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, in health, to love and to cherish till death do you part?"

"I promise to take you, Ron Stoppable, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, in health, to love and to cherish until death do us part."

* * *

_The backwoods near Omsk, Russia, 2036_

The village 'doctor' tapped Grigor on the shoulder, and pulled him aside.

"Sir, I don't know how to tell you this, but… your wife is dying, and there's nothing we can do. I took a blood sample, did the best I could to test it. From that and her looks, her digestive system cannot process it fast enough. Her body is going into its final auto-cannibalistic cycles, and I can do nothing to prevent it. If I had an IV or real hospital equipment, maybe- but not here, not now."

"Do you have needles?"

"Yes."

"The digestive system, the bloodstream carries away the nutrients, right?"

"Yes. I see where you're going with this, but without the proper tests, blood transfusions are insane."

"But without the transfusions, she'll die."

"Alright. As her closest relative, you have the legal authority, but I'd advise you against it as her doctor. Sign this form acknowledging you're going against my medical advice, and we can begin."

He signed the form, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Begin."

* * *

_All Saint's Church, Rome, 2036_

Ronald called forth the Best Man, Jacques Standard.

Ron whispered to Jacques, "Thanks for doing this, man, I know how hard it is for you."

Jacques said, "I can stomach it, as long as you don't hurt her."

"I would never"

The minister snapped his fingers.

"The ring, please, gentlemen. I cannot imagine a conversation that cannot wait twenty seconds."

They both blushed and Jacques gave the ring to Ron. Ron put it on Jax's finger.

"I now declare you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

* * *

_The backwoods near Omsk, Russia, 2036 _

The first needle, already sterilized and filled with his blood, was given to his wife. The blood went in slowly. Grigor bowed his head in shame that he could've let this happen. If he'd only known that his wife would be put in danger, he never would've even joined the CVB. His wife was his rock, his companion. He latched onto her common soul after losing everything after the collapse of the Soviet Union. They'd met, strangely enough, in a McDonalds. He was ordering some lunch, and the tables were full. So the woman that finished after him, he invited her to sit down with him. They took a while to fall in love, but their similarly analytical minds and sharp wits kept each other on their toes. Whenever he offended her, she had a stare, a pose that told him to shut up- which he did fairly quickly.

But then again, that was the rub, wasn't it? By making that policy, he had harmed others' wives and sons, like he'd killed his own. He was just a dictator who'd had Murphy force him to taste his own poisoned wine. Most never had to see the results of their atrocities first hand.

The meter, instead of showing her heartbeat grow stronger, showed the _lub-dub_ growing weaker.

"Doctor- what's happening?"

"The nutrients ARE coming into her bloodstream, from your blood. Your blood types are compatible. However, you had viruses in your genes that she was not immune to. When your blood distributed the viruses to hers, she started dying."

He heard his heart slow with the beat of the meter. He couldn't believe it. It was impossible; not here, not now, his love couldn't be snatched away so suddenly after rediscovering her.

He was numb as the beat stopped, and the sound became steady.

"Time of death: 2 PM, in local time, 2000 GMT. "

A gunshot rang out behind Grigor. The doctor's corpse slumped over on his wife.

"Grigor. It took some time to get through your security. We have a proposition for you."

* * *

_Somewhere over Austria, 2036__  
_

A day later, Grigor was on the Blackbird again, headed for Rome. The CVB base there had packed up, and moved to New York. He had a price to exact upon the world, for the harsh lien it had taken on his soul.


End file.
